


Les mots justes (les marques permanentes)

by blcwriter, sangueuk



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Words and memories leave marks as deep as rings, tanlines, stupid hats and tattoos. It's those moments of pain and pleasure that add up in a love affair-- or whatever you call it-- until it's too much to bear, one way or the other. But some marks can't be erased, and some words, said or unsaid, can't be taken back once the moment is past. What happens as Chris and Karl go from friends to lovers, then nothing-- is their summation of moments all done, or does it add up to something-- come out as words-- worth holding on to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Open relationship/adultery, Karl's family, angst, offscreen het sex, smut, joints, French novels, lots of use of the word "princess," Zach Quinto and Anne Hathaway as fairy godmothers of sorts
> 
> Disclaimer: They're not ours, and this is purely fiction.
> 
> Written for the 2010 RPS Big Bang. Many thanks to our beta reader, thailalunacy, our artist paracaerouvoar and fanmixer roflolmaomg. Links to their incredible work is here: http://blcwriter.livejournal.com/68075.html

part 1

 

11:30 p.m. August 26, 2010

He knows it's infantile, sure-- but it's his birthday party and Karl's been separated from her for ... a while. There's no reason for him to take a call from her during Chris' party, except for the fact that she damn well knows it's Chris' birthday and she feels like spoiling his fun.

Chris knows the kids are just fine. They Skyped with them yesterday, the regular time. But the call drags on and on-- five minutes, ten, and Karl doesn't look angry. Chris, though, most definitely is, but he’s an actor and he’s not going to show it.

Everyone else is having a great time, chatting and dancing and drinking away as their proclivities warrant-- and Chris doesn't quite feel like pulling a complete, utter tantrum. He just gathers his jacket, cigarettes, wallet and phone, ignores the last of his drink, and slides out of the booth. He thinks he's been very patient waiting for Karl to just finish.

The thing is though-- Karl doesn't really seem to ever just finish. There's always some reason to keep talking to Nat-- some reason to be fucking civil when they're in the middle of something important to Chris and fuck it-- he's tired, his throat's constricted and dry for all he's been drinking, his eyes feel red and swollen and gritty like he's been in a sandstorm-- scoured from all the tears he hasn't dared cry because hell, he's the other damned woman and it's not like he's got the right to demand that Karl get off the phone with his wife—or the right to cry stupid tears.

But he doesn't have to sit here and watch Karl decide he'd rather talk to her, either. That tan line and indentation on Karl's finger where his wedding ring was are still apparent, and Chris's eyes burn a little bit harder as he walks right past Karl and Karl doesn't notice at all. Karl can always go back—Nat’s made that clear. And Chris—well...

For all the glamour inside the club, it’s a cinderblock entry, pipes and hoses and all of that industrial shit that makes the mere passerby think it’s a warehouse—typical, keeps out the riff-raff because it’s still new and in an up-and-coming part of the city.

Chris calls a cab and waits inside the entry—it’s a rough enough neighborhood that he’s not about to walk home or venture out in search of a cab, and there aren’t going to be any just cruising. No, he’s going to have to go out of his way, make an effort to get one. Karl did drive them here—with a leer and an eyebrow waggle that he’d “take care of the birthday boy later and all.”

He’s debating—his place or Karl’s—when the cab pulls up outside. His, definitely. He’s been staying most often at Karl’s, trying to worm his way into Karl’s life—and whatever he’s doing, it sure as hell isn’t working. He should have trusted his instincts at first-- not given in when Karl said it could work.

Maudlin thoughts for a birthday, but what the fuck, right? Time for self-reflection and all that shit. Thirty was when you grew up.

He’s got the door open and is about to slide in, is narrating his address to the driver, in fact, when a hand grabs the door. A hand with an old tan line from an old wedding band. And a tattoo underneath-- indelible ink, as if Chris needed another reminder.

“Hold up,” he says—not to Chris, but to the driver. “Be right with you, mate,” he continues before grabbing Chris’ elbow and pulling him out of the car. Chris lets himself be pulled because—well, he’s not going to get into a fistfight with Karl; Karl’s just that little bit bigger, and anyway, Chris is better with words.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and oh—Karl’s mad, like he has any right. He’s crowding Chris into the wall until the cool of the cement blocks and crumble of mortar press into his back and his neck—he can feel it even through the warmth of his sweater.

“Home,” Chris answers simply. Somehow it being his birthday suddenly means he needs this to end tonight or really start over. “It’s my party, I can leave if I want to. I already paid, it’s not like it matters if I’m there or not.”

There’s weird industrial lighting here in the entry—greenish-pale, but Chris can still see that Karl’s flushing.

“Zach told me you left.”

Chris doesn’t smile, though inside he feels a little bit warmed. At least somebody noticed.

“Then go talk to Zach, or call Natalie back.” It’s not kind, but it's honest. “I think that I’m done.”

Karl’s expression softens, and he leans in to kiss Chris—long and soft, almost perfect-- apologetic, but Chris can tell that Karl doesn’t get it. The kiss seems to go on forever, Karl’s tongue exploring and claiming, and the rough cement under Chris’ head and the smell of rusty water in the pipes overhead and Karl’s stubble under Chris’ hand just ... overwhelms because he can’t help touching Karl’s face and savoring his mouth-- for now, the last time-- tasting his lips and inhaling that spicy Karl scent-- because whatever took Karl fifteen minutes to discuss with his wife—it was enough time for Chris to make up his mind.

At last, he uses his hand on Karl’s face to push Karl away.

“What did Natalie want?” He can never bring himself to use her nickname, no matter what friendliness the woman assumes. She can act, too.

“She’s going to be on location here for three weeks, wants to use the house for her and the kids.”

Chris’ throat, already dry, constricts more.

“When is she coming?”

“Two weeks from now.”

Like fuck she’s accepted that Karl’s moved on. And like fuck Karl has, too, making whatever arrangements rather than saying, “Nat, can’t this wait ‘til tomorrow?”

For now, though, he nods—after all, they’ve got a cab waiting.

He heads over, slides in, gives directions back to his place. Karl takes his cue and stays quiet on the way back to Chris'-- though Chris hasn’t been back there in-- two weeks except for checking his mail.

When the cab stops, he pulls out his wallet at the same time as he puts his hand on Karl’s chest— and Karl pauses, finally gets it as Chris pays and tells the cabbie to go on to Karl’s.

“What … why?”

Voice gritty, eyes too, Chris blinks in the dim light of the cab. “I told you, I think that I’m done.”

Karl’s mouth just hangs open-- of course he wasn't listening back at the club-- and Chris—well, he’s been cruel other times, but tonight he’s just tired and really— too still in love with Karl, hopelessly so, probably will be for a long time now that it’s over. So he just explains.

“She knew it was my birthday. She knew we’d be out. She could have called you tomorrow. She didn’t. And you could have asked her to call back instead of talking to her for fifteen minutes—I counted-- check your phone timer, see if I’m wrong. The fact is, though, neither one of you did. Didn't want to. And … Karl. I was already gone, but someone else had to tell you.”

He reaches over and traces the indentation on Karl’s left ring finger. Doesn't trace the heart-shaped tattoo.

“I don’t make an impression on you like this. I want to leave marks on you and … I just don’t. Never have.”

“Chris,” Karl tries to answer, but Chris is already looking away— anywhere but at Karl, and the cabbie’s looking at them the rearview-- not like he’s going to text it into some tabloid, but like he’s holding his breath for what happens next.

The answer is nothing.

Chris opens the door and slides out. “Good luck. I wish you both all the best. Give my love to the kids.”

So help him, he means it, even if his voice sounds like sandpaper. He shuts the door on Karl’s alarmed, worried, completely shocked face.

He hadn’t made a wish when he’d blown out the candle on the cupcake they’d brought him at the club, but as he walks up his stairs, he decides that this is as good a birthday wish as any other. And it’s as clean a break-up as he supposes they can possibly get, at least if the cabbie stays quiet.

As he gets to the door, he can see in the glass' reflection that the cab’s still at the curb-- as if Karl’s waiting for Chris to turn around and come back—say he doesn’t mean it.

Chris opens the door with his key, steps into the cool, stale air of his house, locks up behind, and stares into the long, empty dark of his hall. Doesn't look back.

He wonders if he has any clean sheets.

 

+++

November 4, 2007

“And… cut.”

Chris leans back into the metal frame of the “shuttle,” the stiff leather of his jacket creaking. He unbuckles the seatbelt, his nic-fitting brain thinking of things like anachronism and whether industrial-grade flight belts will have changed all that much three hundred years in the future—then decides that’s props’ problem, not his. Plus dorky like whoa to wonder about aloud.

Next to him, Karl Urban—hah, Eomer, Reaper, wow, holy shit-- sighs, then undoes his own, fingering the industrial-grade nylon webbing. “Guess some stuff doesn’t change,” he says, and Chris laughs, because maybe great minds think alike.

“I was just thinking that, but figured it was too nerdy to say,” Chris admits with a grin. “Chris Pine, by the way, although you’ve pretty much figured that out.”

“Karl Urban,” his seatmate says, turning and extending his hand, this time just himself, not as McCoy, as they meet—not unofficially during JJ’s little rant or as Kirk and McCoy—but just as Chris and Karl.

Chris takes his hand, returns the shake, warmer and slower this time than McCoy’s on-camera one, feels a smile on his face as he officially meets Karl—after their shared nerdy pondering, a successful first take and Karl’s coming to his defense even before they’d even been introduced.

He doesn’t quite have the words to say why, but he’s got a good feeling about this very first meeting.

 

+++

Karl's standing by his hired car in the studio lot, having a third cigarette and staring at his phone-- the one that's not ringing back even though she knows how much he wants to talk to the kids—needs to when he’s just gotten someplace and landed—needs it to get grounded and started off right on a new project. Fucking Nat. The least she could do is put the boys on the phone so he could talk to them, but she won't even do that. Christ, Jesus, it's not like this is the first time he's filmed in L.A. or over a big fucking time difference, and he certainly makes the effort when she's working-- but no... and now it's still early, L.A. time, and what the hell is he supposed to do with the rest of his night?

"Hey, Karl. This yours?"

He turns at the sound of the voice-- Chris Pine's friendly, raspy, flat American vowels, tired-sounding since they all had to be on set early this morning and the poor kid had that stupid not-fight with JJ over his nephew. Even Karl, who’d just arrived on the set, had heard that Chris had given a call. So yeah, it's only six p.m., local, he thinks as he does the math from the home time still displayed on his watch, but it's been a long day for them all.

Karl nods at the Land Rover.

"Yeah. Cliched, I know, but it's close enough to what I've got at home, so..."

Chris unabashedly peeks his head in to see if it's automatic or stick or some other thing he's nosy about. "Left- or right-hand drive in New Zealand?" He smiles, then says, "I've never been ... antipodeal."

Karl can't help but laugh as Chris drops his voice and infuses the big word with a whispered and ominous tone, like it's dirty or something. "I'll take what I can get," he says, still chuckling.

Chris nods and pulls a pack of fags out of the leather satchel he's got hitched over his shoulder, then rolls his neck. A loud crack sounds forth. "Thought we'd never get out of there. I know some people use nicotine patches but ..." And at this, he flushes. Karl can't help but think it's cute, a strange thought for all that he's known the bloke for not even a day. "I'm allergic to the adhesive and they make me too wired." Then he shrugs and mumbles around the fag end as he lights it, eyes cast down at the lighter, dark blond eyelashes curled long and fluttering not coquettishly at all—he can’t be conscious of how he looks, he’s concentrating so hard on getting his fag lit, the same furrowed brow and headache-y look of someone desperate for cigarettes the world over, now that Karl sees it-- as he says "Plus, the Buddha did say life is suffering."

Once again, Karl can't help but laugh. Something that’s been angry and dark in his stomach ever since that fight at the house before he’d left starts to uncurl.

"I don't think the Buddha had nic fits in mind."

Chris chuckles as he takes a long draw, then exhales, lips pursed in deep satisfaction, eyes closed as his shoulders visibly sag. After his short scene with Karl, he'd had a couple of takes of that fight scene with Spock-- what was his name? Zachary? Quinto? Yeah, that was it-- on the bridge, and he'd mostly had to get thrown onto mock consoles a lot. For a moment, Karl wonders if the kid needs a backrub—he’s had a long day of it too-- then shakes the thought off. He's in an odd mood, Nat fucking him all over and up and around and this his first day on the set. It doesn’t bode well for the rest of the shoot, but he pushes that thought off and draws on his fag, trying to let the smoke curl in his lungs and calm him a bit, the mere act of smoking a sedative thing.

They stand there a bit, smoking in silence, more companionable than he’s felt with a stranger than since meeting Viggo, as Karl finishes his cigarette and Chris sucks his own fag down and lights another, smoking that one more slowly. Finally, Chris shakes himself like a wet dog after picking his crushed butts up and tucking them into his pocket-- something that makes Karl feel like an ass, since he's just left his flicked on the pavement--and smiles sidelong at Karl, though less “who’s this crazy guy and how can I calm him down so he won’t puke on me but maybe, just maybe, he seems okay” and more friendly than Kirk.

"I don't care what the Surgeon General says, nicotine is God's answer to long fucking days. Well, that and red meat and beer."

Karl can't help but agree—and it’s an odd echo, but he kind of feels soothed, like he let McCoy feel his feathers settle when Kirk assured Bones that those flying tin cans were “pretty safe.”

Heavens knows why. Pine’s got to be, what? Not even thirty. Yet still…

"Amen to that." After a moment, he decides what the fuck, right? Pine hasn't been acting like he's got anyplace to be in a hurry. "I don't have anything on tonight... know any place that has a good burger, a pool table and..."

"Not too many starfuckers?" Chris finishes, his smile knowing and wry—Kirk-like, a bit. Except not. "I can think of a few." His mouth flattens as he turns thoughtful, then he nods to himself. "Yeah. Let me go get my car, you can follow, unless you'd rather come back here after." Karl shakes his head-- he's not going to drink that much, not tonight, leastaways.

It's a few minutes before a little Honda ragtop zips over-- not what Karl had expected, and it must show on his face.

"Don't even start," the man says, pointing his finger at Karl like he knows some kind of outburst is coming. "Good gas mileage and parking in my neighborhood is a sonofabitch, plus I don’t make that much more than scale."

"Yet," Karl calls through the window, because it’s just been one day but ... well, Chris is good. He's heard rumors about Chris almost not getting the part, but he finds it hard to believe. His Kirk is fucking incredible—it’s going to be hard to keep up, though Karl likes that kind of challenge.

Chris smiles this shy smile that's gone so quickly Karl’s not sure it was there to begin with, then raises his voice ... "Beer. Meat. More cigarettes. Come on, Urban. My car might be smaller than yours, but that just means it's more nimble. You just try and keep up." He gives Karl a shit-eating grin and for the third time that evening, Karl can't help but burst out in laughter. This kid-- he's good for Karl's maudlin mood.

"Oh, Pine. I'll keep up and more-- you just watch your back. You might find out I'm more trouble than you ever planned for."

Chris just gives him that same grin and shakes his head. "You're on, old man." His car lurches forward into gear, and Karl guns his Rover and follows.

Old man-- what a shit. Karl'll show him. Keep up? It'll be Pine who'll be begging for mercy before too fucking long.

 

+++

 

January 13, 2008

Chris thinks about bower birds while he scoots his foot through the debris in his on-set cubicle, part of the "bullpen" J.J.'s set up so they have someplace on set more concrete than a chair and less far than a walk to their trailer to work or rest while they're filming. When he spends his days being someone else for a living, it’s the little things that connect him to who he really is. It’s not quite ferns, leaves and berries-- more like candy wrappers, note-books and his laptop, but Chris likes the analogy and he’s sticking with it.

He dismisses the thought that bower birds decorate their nests to attract a mate, because it just doesn’t fit. He won’t let it.

The thing is, though, these little things, they’re not working-- he’s not in touch with who he is. Not now, when he can’t stop thinking about…

He shakes his head, sets his mind in a different direction. Take the fucking size of this role. Nothing he’s done before, not even starring opposite the ying and yang of womanhood, Hathaway and Lohan, compares to the pressure of getting this right. Here on this bright, shiny set, he’s a trapeze artist, dazzled by the lights, exhilarated by the audience but fuck, the balance required– It’s so very fine. He could mess up any second, fall to his death, if he does something like take a piss in an alley without the right escort, for fuck’s sake. No one cared this much about the rom-coms-- no one cared this much about him. Not that it's even about him, though-- it's Kirk. Trek and Kirk. He's got to get in touch with motherfucking James Kirk.

Chris’ gaze drifts towards Karl’s cubicle again. He can’t see him-- he registers that fact and moves on. Chris has to think about moving on, but he does.

He needs coffee. He’s been drinking way too much lately, and it’s not helping with his sleep one little bit. Unlike cigarettes, up until now, coffee’s been a pleasant addiction, but -- since JJ insists on no smoking on set -- Chris has been hitting the espressos, the mochas, a couple an hour. He’s wired, unbalanced and his thoughts are like blades, cutting him up. It’s what happens when a guy gets too much of what he doesn’t want and not enough of what he needs-- not that Chris is willing to figure out, much less admit, what that is.

Karl’s not back yet. Maybe he’s in his trailer or taking an early lunch with someone, though he and Chris generally eat together and then with whomever else is around.

His thoughts jitter and jutter some more, murky like the mocha at the bottom of his paper cup-- he really should have brought a reuseable mug from his trailer. If Zach caught him, he'd snark at him for killing more trees as well as brain cells with all of this coffee—he’d say something about how he didn't get him this role only for Chris to have a caffeine-induced heart attack just two months in.

Chris needs to calm the fuck down and soak up his lines so they come out just right-- Kirk’s first ship-wide address. He needs to find some humility for his character, a dose of I’m-so-fucking-scared but also of knowing, of feeling Kirk's in the right place, finally home after not having one-- well, practically ever, no one ever thinking he could do shit. Chris recalls the knots in his stomach at his second audition, and yeah – that’ll work.

He closes his eyes to bring back the moment, finding links-- but he opens them almost immediately, because hazel and olive swirl to form an image he knows is Karl-- and that he’s not really ready to look at.

Christ, he’s fucking tired. It’s peaceful here, he thinks, as he leans back in his cushy, swivelly chair, a buzz of activity around on the set, his laptop warm on his lap, the screensaver trancing him out. It might explain why his hand moves to the mousepad, no definitive ‘why’ behind the action at all, and he's clicking his email, writing -

Hey, I’d kill for a smoke.

He hits send.

God knows when Karl will get it and whatever, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s cigarettes that he’s craving, fucking teetotaler J.J. and his bitching about makeup and costumes. There's nothing else to it at all -- and Karl will get it, he always does. He gets that kind of stuff, he's always gotten Chris from the start.

Then he banishes that line of thought and thinks about Work. Kirk. Right. Work. It’s what he’s here for, after all. Kirk and his first shipwide address, right after McCoy’s failed to show confidence in him for a second damned time, and geez, he and Karl had run over that scene six ways to Sunday and he thinks that they’ve nailed it, Karl just gets Bones, just like he got what was going on that first shuttle scene and that not-scene with J.J.

No. Work. Kirk. Not Karl. Kirk. Right.

 

+++

 

Chris delays checking his email for hours. He takes a shower, sits in his boxers eating cold Thai, flips through the sports channels, gnaws on his nails. He smokes three cigarettes in a row, but not one of them scratches that itch. Goddamned coffee.

He pulls a battered notebook from the coffee table and flattens himself out on the couch, one foot on the floor, pen in his mouth. He stares at the ceiling, his heart doing weird shit in his chest from nicotine, caffeine, Captain James Tiberius Kirk-- and waits for something to come.

 

+++

It’s two in the morning and Chris is tired of not being tired.

Rubbing his eyes, Chris leaves his bed, shoves on his glasses, and walks through the unlit apartment considering what to do next. He’s usually comfortable in his own company but today, tonight, he’s been one big itch under his skin.

The notebook’s on the couch where he left it, the blank page (ignoring the doodles) making him tsk. The ashtray’s spilling over, his wet towel’s on the floor where he dropped it straight out of the bathroom, and the take-out box is balanced on the arm of the couch. He decides he’s getting to like Captain Kirk a whole lot but maybe Chris Pine is kind of an asshole.

He opens up his laptop bag, leaves it by the front door, and carries the computer and his notebook back to the bedroom.

Porn, yeah, that’s why he’s in such a hurry to boot up. He’ll jerk off, fall right back to sleep.

His usual sites piss him off. Fake tits paired with fake-baked guys with plucked eyebrows. He’s told Zach that when he’s president, fuck greenhouse gases, the first law he’ll pass will be to ban tanner-- not that he's complained to Zach about the guys on the porn sites. He can only handle so much Quinto eyebrow. But the tanner-- it makes him itch, makes him so fucking angry and really-- really-- how the hell does Kirk even stay tan on a spaceship?

Twelve hours have crawled past since Chris sent the email and-- well, he decides, it’s hardly needy if he’s waited that long to look for a reply.

Kill with your bare hands, or kill with your phaser?

It’s an anti-climax-- he still reads it a half-dozen times.

Chris minimizes the window and clicks on a porn site again. His cock’s never felt less interested. Then he opens the email again and reads it aloud, trying for a Kiwi accent. The word ‘kill’ is easy and he’s always been a great mimic.

Chris clicks on YouTube, types ‘Karl Urban,’ and hits enter. He ignores the voice in his head, the one prodding at his chest that tells him he’s a dick and says don't. There’s another one in there, too, one that sounds just like Zach—that one chimes in and says, “Bitch, don’t you dare.” And porn, anyway-- he wouldn’t know where to begin. How do you find gay porn featuring dark haired Kiwis in their mid thirties? Plus, he’s not gay. Hating fake tits probably proves that. Maybe he does need to run this by Zach, Chris thinks as he clicks on the speaker icon-- Karl, accepting some award, starts to play.

Nice fucking guy, modest – Karl looks genuinely surprised when they call his name. Chris blinks in the split second when Karl stands up, then wonders who the little blonde is sitting down to Karl's left. He really doesn’t want-- care to know. He watches the speech hungrily, and Karl’s all sexy accent and stumbling words-- Chris realizes he’s never seen Karl nervous before, never so merely human. When they're on set, Karl's all charm and laughter or serious actor and competent as fucking hell. Anxiety pangs in his belly. Maybe it's just the leftover caffeine.

Still, Chris replays the vid. This time he’s seeing different details -- Karl’s sweaty face, his long back, the open collar of his shirt. Karl’s wife looking at him with utter pride.

Great-looking woman, Chris thinks, rubbing his forehead, his stomach a-churn. Karl’s a lucky guy. He adds the vid to his favorites list, which is more than a little mendacious.

He opens the email again. Writes:

My hands.

He hits send, because he’s Chris Pine, not Captain Kirk.

center>+++

“You were up late, Chris—“

What? How did he--?

Ah.

“—Yeah, couldn’t sleep.” Karl looks fantastic but all Chris can see is Karl's proud little wife, smiling.

They both look at Chris’ full coffee mug-- he remembered today, and at least it's the one from Smokin' Aces and cool, not one of his shit ones from one of the rom coms. Chris retreats without further word back to his trailer, his Starfleet boots pinching like hell.

 

+++

 

January 18, 2008

A week has passed since the modest email exchange. Okay, it’s really only been five days, but it feels a lot longer. His email pings.

Is stunt man going to sue?

Chris’ ribs still hurt. A lot. He wonders for a moment how it would feel if Karl ran his fingers over them, checking them out. Then he realizes lack of sleep is making him confused – this is Karl, not McCoy. The only way Chris might get Karl to look up his shirt is if he had some geeky first-issue comic concealed up there.

Either scenario, if Chris lets himself to dwell, ignites a ripple of fire, brief and intense like a match flaring alongside his cock. Smelling sulfuric and forbidden, too, even if that part’s all in his over-imaginative head. He shifts back on the couch, puts his laptop to sleep, and gingerly drops his feet to the floor. He drags his duffle bag close so he can locate his tickets to Salt Lake-- he still needs to pack.

This kills at least twenty minutes while he grabs whatever’s at hand that might keep him warm.

Finally, though, because it would be rude not to answer…

Sue who, me or the studio? He really should write whom, but that's pretension in a simple email. He doesn't change the wording though it makes his fingers itch just a little.

The point at which Chris wavers before hitting send, the anxiety that has nothing to do with his grammar, it’s getting easier to ignore. He doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or not. But really-- what’s the big deal? They are friends, co-workers-- they need to keep close, they do shit after work with the others and sometimes just by themselves, just like that first night when they went and shot pool and joked around for hours and Chris laughed… more than he had in a while, even with Zach, which was the problem and start of it, really, though the real start was just fucking Karl walking in and telling off JJ without even knowing Chris, knight in khaki fucking armor and manly gruff stubble, even if it was for the shoot. If the movie does well, there will be more hanging out, more time with Karl-- Trek is a property, no fucking doubt.

You broke his bloody hand, mate! YOU!

Fuck, he’s online. Right fucking now.

The level to which this excites him-- Chris can’t force it to make any sense. But there’s a flutter in his belly, a sudden sense of not being alone, some secret shared, and he feels a nauseous excitement he can’t remember feeling since he last was in… fuck. It's too much and ... not right. Not now. Ever? And yet.

Chris pads to the fridge for another beer, using the time to try and come up with something pithy. Pithy? The fuck. This is Karl. He wishes he had Zach with him, knows he’d think of something appropriate. Or inappropriate. No-- he doesn't wish Zach was here at all.

Chris looks back at the message details. Yeah, five minutes have passed. He’ll smoke a cigarette before he replies, but he’s only half way through when an alert pings.

How’re your ribs? Of course Karl would ask, even after ragging on Chris.

Usually, under normal circumstances, Chris explores his head space in his journal. Normally he’d write it down, externalize this too-consuming something-- this buzz lighting him up, making his knee bounce and his appetite shrink, keeping him out of bed when he has to be up so fucking early to fly.

Chris doesn't do therapy, not like so many do in L.A., but he's never shirked from introspection. He's always listened to his folks’ advice, his friends’, his sister's, his various agents'. When he feels moody, he explores situations, quandaries through character vignettes, little scenes, and at least it puts his lit degree to some use, since people would laugh if he said aloud that he had thoughts toward writing, the pretty-boy son of two actors. Actors and actors’ kids—they don’t write, they read the lines that they’re given. It’s why Chris keeps his notebooks a secret, the ones that aren’t for notes for his scripts, the ones he takes to the set when he’s working. It doesn't necessarily lead to answers-- but it means he can look back at his encrypted thoughts when he’s ready-- make sense of them later, at distance, and still get them down, deal with them somehow, get them out of his head so he can get some peace-- get some work done. It's always worked-- up to this point.

He downs his beer and drops the bottle onto the floor, pushes his hand under his shirt and strokes the bruised ‘pay-back’ zone on his lower ribs, the one that hurts every time he turns, stretches, moves practically—which of course, the stunt guy would know. Fuck. It’s not like he did it on purpose. But he’s being maudlin, licking his wounds, and then his mind wanders-- he imagines Karl’s face between his thighs, gazing up at him as Karl's hand explores the sore spot, asks how it hurts. And fantasy-Karl’s not in costume, he’s not McCoy tending his Captain, fuck, no – he’s a married man and twin coils of feeling, like snakes, wrap around Chris-- sheer utter guilt and intense want-- damned if he can tell which one makes him harder. He places the laptop on the coffee table, and palms his cock through his boxers.

Leans over to type a reply.

Can’t feel a thing, Chris lies.

Karl responds in less than a minute. Tough guy.

Not so tough. Can’t sleep and need to be up at dawn to get a flight to Sundance. FML.

Why can’t you sleep?

Chris doesn’t know what to say. What he can get away with? He reveled (fine, wallowed, he was a drama queen even then) in dramatic irony at Berkley, and he considers entertaining himself with something ‘innocent,’ which only the omniscient reader would get-- not poor fucking Karl. What Chris wants to say is easy. I can’t stop thinking about your hands on me, you fucker. But there’s no reader, just him and his villainous, vituperative brain.

In the end, Chris settles. He always has. Why should tonight be any different?

Just the usual shit: traffic noise, coffee, boredom, too much shit in my head. You’re awake, though. Why’s that?

He’s actually curious—Karl’s not much of a night owl—he’s good for night shoots and all of that work stuff, but given his druthers, he’s not the kind of guy to go clubbing with Zoe and Zach (not that Chris does it that often, either, he’s just not that fabulous and he hates all the paps, plus his dancing is shitty) or even stay out that late playing pool or having late dinners. Karl’s just … married. Settled. Has his house up in the hills, a nice one that’s all decorated and shit, not McMansion-y and designer-y stuff but neither is it Ikea and college leftovers like Chris’ place.

While he waits for the reply, Chris imagines Karl, imagines how he must be sitting, what he must be doing. He wonders what he’s wearing, wonders if he’s smoking too, his beautiful fucking lips pulling on a cigarette-- and then he's touching himself again, lifting his ass off the couch as he looks over at the light of his screen in the dark room—

It’s Nat. It’s been a rough couple of months. Long story.

He lets go of his cock. How could he not?

So absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder? I’m sorry to hear that. If you want to talk, we should get a beer when I get back.

No dramatic irony there, really. Chris doesn’t want to be the guy who manipulates that situation. Shit, if he was, he wouldn't be single, would he?

Thanks, mate. Here’s my number. Have a safe flight. Sleep tight, Karl says. His response comes fast on Chris' reply and Chris feels like the villain again because fuck-- here he is fantasizing about his friend and Karl's up and alone because of marital problems. He rolls off the couch, finds and recycles the beer bottle on the way out past the kitchen. This Chris Pine being an asshole thing's got to stop.

Maybe a shower will help. Chris feels dirty, guilty, filthy-- he manages to dismiss his hard-on for a full five minutes, but then he’s jacking off furiously, using the soap to ease his fingers into his ass. He imagines Karl fucking him, taking him from behind, slamming him into the tile with one arm around Chris’ chest, another forcing Chris’ leg up to the side, so he can get the right angle. Chris comes like a fucking train, choking and swearing with self-disgust - gasping for love like a carp on a kitchen table gasping for water, Flaubert had said. It comes out in a whisper—he feels weirdly broken, desperate and utterly bewildered at where the hell all this has come from.

On the way out of the house, he shoves an extra notebook into his duffel, then grabs Flaubert from his bookshelf. That bit of subconscious shit couched in gorgeous French realism will at least tide him over for the flight.

 

+++

 

He’s in Salt Lake one night. The interview’s a breeze, the woman’s intelligent, and because Chris is tired he’s glad Kirk’s only mentioned in passing. He’s covered his character’s stupid brassy-blond hair with a hat-- he doesn't want Kirk's company now. Funny how a few hundred miles, a slide down the temperature scale, and putting his feet back into indie film talk has helped him regain perspective and settle into some other skin. Chris deletes the two text messages he gets from Karl, unopened. For extra good measure, he deletes Karl’s number from his phone and, pleased to have thought of it, deletes his number from his call register, too.

Christ – what the hell was he playing at? A married man? With children? Fuck.

Karl’s an innocent in all this, of course. How could he know that Chris has been living in the Land of Stupid Moron Mancrush for weeks? All this time, playing videogames and crashing on Chris’ couch in his trailer or at his apartment on late nights or going out with him or a few other for beers, Karl’s had to have just thought they’re good friends, that Chris’ smiles and jokes and friendliness are just simple goodwill and sure, it’d started that way but it hadn’t stayed like that, no, not for that long at all. Chris is glad he’s had the presence of mind to put a stop to this now, before things get out of hand. Before someone, everyone, gets hurt.

 

+++

 

Chris feels the heat more than usual when he’s home-- the apartment’s stifling and it was cold in Utah, so he actually closes the windows and turns on the A.C., strips to his boxers and fetches a beer, rolls the glass along his cheeks to cool down while the cool air kicks in. His phone buzzes with a text -- a missive-- from Zach.

You looked like a dick in that hat.

Thanks. Just wait until you see the wig in the movie. Did you miss me?

Tonsorial crimes – the best kind. No, I didn’t miss you. You were only away 24 hours and I was asleep for half of those. I coped, Zach retorts, ever sassy. Thank goodness someone doesn't take Chris too seriously. Then the phone buzzes again. Okay. Maybe Noah missed you. Clue is - he’s currently licking his ass.

Chris wanders into the kitchen again and fixes what Simon calls a Scooby-snack. He shakes off the image of Karl laughing when everyone had come over for beers and Chris had made lunch -- three-tiered, Dagwood sandwiches. He remembers now, although at the time he’d only noticed subliminally, how he’d watched Karl’s long, tan fingers hold the bread in place, how his gaze had flickered to Karl’s mouth more than once as Karl ate, watched as Karl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand-- broad palms, capable ones, the ones he was always touching Kirk with as McCoy on the set but not otherwise. As if that’s not something Chris should have fucking clued to. And, right there, thinking about that, Chris loses his appetite. He wraps the sandwich and puts it away.

He rolls his eyes when his phone buzzes again. Fucking Zach. He obviously hasn’t finished with his Noah story and even worse, Chris has failed to feed him his line in his duty as literal straight man.

“Shit,” Chris says out loud when he reads--

You back yet?

Karl. Just because he erased the number doesn't mean he doesn't recognize it-- know it by… heart. Yeah. Why is Karl so fucking nice? Why does he have to be so damned thoughtful? And why is Chris hoping it’s got little to do with thoughtfulness and everything to do with... Without thinking, because, otherwise he just wouldn’t, Chris texts Zach.

I think I’m gay.

His phone rings immediately.

“Spill, Christopher—“

“—no.” Chris' voice is rough, croaky – damned airline, shit fucking air.

There’s silence, which, given Zach’s quick-wittedness, his need to drop the pithy one-liner every damned chance he gets-- it tells Chris that his friend’s picked up his tone. Maybe Zach gets that this isn’t a joke. Chris gnaws a nail. Finally, Zach speaks.

“You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and leave the building. Also, you’re totally not gay.”

Chris takes a gulp from his bottle of water. He doesn’t have the energy to argue with him, because seriously, he doesn’t care whether he is or whether he isn’t. It's just ... Karl. Fuck.

“Who’s the lucky girl then?” Zach’s voice is warm, smooth, he’s trying to be funny. Wildean. Though Zach would deny it, because he says he's never in earnest, and then raises an eyebrow and pretends he's not being funny.

“Shut. Up.”

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

Chris tsks, but it’s so fucking good to hear Zach’s voice and he needs this comfortable, familiar banter especially after all this what the fuck texting. “Go fuck yourself, Quinto.”

“Sure, like you’ll be doing for the foreseeable future until you talk yourself out of your Big Gay Crisis.” Zach’s tone is playful. Fine, he’s decided it’s a big joke -- which means Chris can back out anytime he wants.

“Okay. Maybe I’m wrong.” Chris can hear Noah barking in the background, a habit he has whenever Zach’s on the phone too long – the reason the two of them text so much.

“Want me to come over?” Zach asks. His tone is sincere. He's actually worried.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

“I can give you a few pointers—“

“I don’t need pointers, I need a fucking lobotomy.”

Zach laughs at that. “First love sucks, huh? Want me to link you to some sites—“

“Swear to god, Quinto—“ Chris must have let his guard down or something but genuine irritation leaks out and Zach processes it quickly then throws in:

“Oh my God! It’s someone on the set, isn’t it? I thought you were all over that sour faced, dark-haired—“ and Chris’ heart actually misses a beat-- “...whatshername—“ Zach trails off.

“...Emma, who’s a girl, so that wouldn’t qualify as Big Gay Crisis, now, would it, Zach? And she was all over me.”

“Of course, oh big-dicked captain, my captain. Well, if you’re not going to spill, I’m going to sleep on it. You know I’ll have worked it out by noon, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I know.” Chris feels temporarily lighter for having talked, even if he hasn't revealed. His shoulders feel easier, and the hand holding the phone isn't trembling, which he’s only noticed now that it’s stopped. Hunh. What else has he … no. He’s only going to think about stopping. Not about anything that’s already done.

One thing he knows: gay or not doesn’t come into it. Married or not– that’s the problem. Also, appropriate or not, stalking your co-star or not. Although he did delete Karl's number. And he hasn't texted him back. Yet.

Jesus, he’s totally fucked.

 

+++

 

June 30, 2009

"I just want them to like me." Chris wipes down the island for the fourth time as Karl watches, then eyes the coffee machine, then his fags, then the fridge, then the clock. It's Monday, a rare day off from his play.

"It'll be fine, Chris, I promise. Now are you going to stop dithering so we can get in the car and go to the airport? We're going to be late picking them up if you don't stop fucking cleaning," Karl says, trying to hide his amusement. Truth be told, he's a little nervous himself, but he's not going to tell Chris that.

Chris looks at the clock, at his watch, says, "Oh, Jesus, sorry," and practically runs out of the house, grabbing his usual satchel of crap that he always brings with him every-god-damned-where that they go as he heads out the door.

For someone who's Hollywood's new golden boy-- seriously, the theater reviewer creamed his panties all over the show-- he's a nervous wreck half the time. Karl'll never understand how he can be half-frat boy, half-sex god, half-Woody-Allen-film-neurotic times ten and yet-- still all Chris Pine. He shakes his head to himself, then looks up as Chris says-- "Karl-- KARL," and shit, he's nearly missed the exit himself musing on the mystery that is the enigma that is the hot mess that is Christopher Whitelaw Lip-licking Fingernail-Biting Bad-Joke-Telling Cheer-You-Up No Matter What Pine.

Fortunately, the kids are just coming through customs as they're reaching the doors, so their near miss doesn't leave the kids waiting at all-- and Karl gets to just inhale the funk of stale airplane and young boys and the eucalyptus out back of Indy's room that always leaves a smell in his hair and engulf them both as all around them there's the background noise of everyone else reuniting with their loved ones, and then his boys are tellling him all about their flight and all the junk food they ate as they move out of the airport and back to the car. He's got each by one hand and is climbing with them into the backseat before he realizes-- and oh-- but Chris is smiling, understanding as he shoves the kids' bags into the back of the Rover.

"Hey, guys. You've got to be Indy, right, and you're Hunter?" He shakes their hands solemnly, like they're grownups, none of the patronizing shit he's seen Nat's boyfriends do.

His boys nod and say hi, Hunter looking between Chris and Karl for some clue but Indy, well, he just gapes before he gives Chris a big grin. "You're Captain Kirk!"

Chris smiles, just a small one, the one he gives interviewers he’s not sure about. "Only on screen. I let friends call me Chris."

Hunter looks at Karl again. "What do you make people who are jerks and don't introduce you properly call you?" So much for Chris being nervous about the kids not liking him, even if Karl hasn't been completely up front about all the details of "daddy's friend." He'd sort of planned on breaking that to them over the week, as they got to know Chris a little bit better.

Chris gives him a confiding-type grin. "I let them call me Chris, too, but they have to buy everyone pizza and ice cream and soda for dinner. And buy me extra beer."

Since that had been the plan anyway, it's not much of a punishment, but the kids don't need to know that.

Karl nods like he's been chastized. "Chris. Do I have to?" He'd pull on a pout, but he feels like a shit for only paying attention to Chris at this point, and being playful's not quite the thing, he doesn't think.

Chris just slides into the driver's seat and motions for Karl to get in the back with the kids. "Get in the car, Urbans. There's unpacking to do, and then lots of pizza and ice cream to eat." The boys are too busy buckling up to see Chris' wink in the rearview mirror-- or Karl's grateful mouthed "Thank you," and that's okay. Some words-- and unsaid ones-- are just for adults.

continued in part 2


	2. Chapter 2

part 2

 

January 20, 2008

Zach looks like thunder, there’s no denying it. The playfulness over the phone from last night has evaporated. Big time.

“This is shit, Chris.” Ha, Zach’s called him ‘Chris’ - a bad sign. It's always Christopher if he can banter.

Chris fills his cup with coffee, glances around the set, and rubs his eye, just the corner in case he dislodges another damned lens. “You think I don't know—“

“And you’re so obvious. What the fuck are you playing at? “ Zach grabs his elbow, tugs Chris away from the partition. “And he’s…”

“Stop. I’m not dumb. I fucking know, right? I know.” Chris needs to smoke so badly it’s like rats eating at his insides. “How did you...” He looks around for Karl-- thankfully there’s no sign.

“Because, my fair maid, he’s the only person you haven’t so much as looked at all day.” Zach lifts out his peppermint teabag, squashes it with his stirrer, hisses from the corner of his mouth. “You’re such an amateur-- frankly, I’m disgusted.” There's a hint of amusement underneath some real dismay. Sometimes, Chris is amazed how Zach ever pulls off Spock at all-- Zach's face is so plastic.

Chris doesn’t ask if Zach’s disgusted because it’s Karl or disgusted by Chris’ sheer stupidity. He’ll find out soon enough with Zach's mood. He waits for Zach to finish-- with the stirrer, with blowing on the tea, to actually look at him rather than down his nose like he doesn’t fucking get that if Chris had any control over these feelings…

They haven’t said Karl’s name once. Chris wants to say it, get it out in the open. Make it real, so it's something he can walk away from. “You have to help me—“

“God, you’re so melodramatic, Chris, seriously, this is not something I’m prepared to condone, I …” Zach's eyebrows are doing the conga, he's so fucking worked up.

Chris forcibly takes Zach’s stirrer, adds more cream, more sugar to his own coffee. He really needs those calories because fuck knows when he's last really eaten, plus it's something to wake him up because now, fucking great, now’s the time he wants to crawl into bed and sleep, lust and depression sinking right in. “I’m not asking you to condone a damned thing. What I want is you to help me get through the next couple of weeks.”

Zach puts his cup down on the table. There’s something like relief on his face. “How?”

“You’re supposed to come up with ideas!” It's a hiss, almost an accusation, a plea. All of it. Fine. As long as Zach helps.

“Okay.” Zach looks to the side while he thinks. “Margaritas, my place – soon as we finish up. Shit, shower, shave and then…” He mimes a cocktail shaker and Chris breaks into a smile, feels so fucking grateful-- it probably morphs into a rather unattractive gape when Karl’s voice pops up behind him.

“Margaritas, yeah, sounds good. What time?” Karl’s in Science blue, looks fucking spectacular and Chris has to hand it to Zach, his friend doesn’t miss a beat, breaks out a dazzling smile and pats Karl on the arm.

“Late – whatever time we finish up here. We’ve only got a few weeks left, more or less, fuck being sensible and early nights, let’s party!”

Karl grins, rolls his eyes, does that sideways glance thing at Chris which, once upon a time, was all I’m-Mr-Nice-Guy, but now just makes Chris ache. He can feel himself start to blush, so he turns away before he gives Zach anything else to goad him about. The gods are fucking with Christopher Pine.

“I need to go run over my scene. Tonight then.” Chris raises his mug at Karl and strolls off to his cubicle like the good golden boy wannabe that he is.

 

+++

 

He can smell Karl before he even sees him, and he's trapped in his cubicle as he turns and Karl-- he's just there.

“Chris”-- his name’s a hiss in the Kiwi's mouth. It should be something ugly, something reptilian—but his name’s never sounded so good and shit, Chris is getting hot and bothered again. He looks up and Karl’s leaning on the partition, his hands awkward by his side with no useful pockets in which to hide them, not in those tight Starfleet pants. “You didn’t answer my texts—“

“Oh, I, yeah…sorry, I was.... It was hectic, you know how it is at these things…” Chris’ voice just plain runs out of steam. He sounds like an idiot, someone who doesn’t know how to treat a friend because, thank you, that’s what Karl is-- was– a friend and Chris would do well to remember and value that and try to act like how they used to be before Chris turned into a bona fide moron.

“Nah, no need to apologize, I was just wondering if you were okay, you know, with what—I didn't mean to overhear, but sounded like you were having a rough day… in the, in the…” Karl flicks his thumb over his shoulder, in the general direction of the coffee cart.

Chris is staring at Karl’s mouth-- he catches himself in time and whiplashes back into reality. Christ, he fucking loves the way Karl stumbles over his words sometimes. It makes no sense, none at all, but Chris' higher brain function seems to have pretty much abandoned him lately. That’s why Chris licks his lips, says, “I should have called you, you know, after what you said…” Chris waves his hand, looking for the right word, one that isn’t ‘wife’, ‘Nat’, or ‘home’, because all those words make him taste puke and it’s not about her, about them, it’s fucking disgust at himself. Thank fuck Karl saves him.

“Yeah – we’ve, er…we’ve had a bit of a bust up. I…”

Karl looks down at his feet for a second, leans down to examine the script, and his hand brushes Chris’ wrist when he taps the paper. Still, Karl doesn’t say anything, explain what he’s looking for, doesn't make a gag about the lines or whatever and-- their heads are close. So fucking close, Chris could just…. He can feel Karl looking at him and Chris turns, catches sight of dark, sad eyes and panics. He makes to stand and whatever Karl was going to say's lost forever. But there’s no room to move and Karl stays put, still standing too close. What the hell, haven’t they heard of personal space in New Zealand?

“Sorry to hear that, man. I don’t know what to say. I guess it’s the long separation– imagine five years on a mission…” Chris is trying to wise-crack, lighten the mood, bring them back to the here and now, the work, but Karl puffs out a sigh. He still doesn't (won’t?) move and Chris feels hemmed in, like he can’t breathe. Exactly how much did Karl overhear?

“Yeah, and no fraternization with the crew—” Karl says seriously, draining what little air is left in Chris’ lungs with his near-whispered words.

“Yeah. I guess… Look, we’ll have that drink.”

“Good plan-- rules or no bloody rules.” Only then does Karl back out of his lean on the partition, loom over Chris for a heavy moment-- and then he’s gone. It doesn’t pass Chris by that it was Karl who decided to break that fucking moment-- whatever it was.

Also, Chris thinks -- what the fuck did that mean? Fraternization? He tosses the script aside and watches Karl disappear past the rigging. Chris scans for Zach, but there's no sign of him, so he scrabbles for his cell, hands trembling enough that he has to retype half the message, knowing Zach’s intolerance of abbreviated and unpunctuated text-speak.

I've decided not to come tonight. I can’t handle it. Something just happened. He was here. There was an ‘atmosphere' and I get the feeling that margaritas, joints and my girl-crush will end in a disaster that would be all over the tabloids by the morning. I’ll catch up on some sleep. Call me. How are you going to cancel on Karl?

 

+++

 

Still, here he is. Chris sits on Zach’s kitchen table. He’s had four beers, then some margaritas (pomegranate and something else because damn if Zach can make any drink the plain old straight way-- not that Chris minds, as long as it's booze), has shared a joint and has finally stopped swinging his legs – drunk trumps caffeine. Plus, he's had a joint all to himself. Maybe. He hasn’t kept a tally, precisely.

Zach, God fucking bless him, hasn’t left his side all evening which is just as well, because neither has Karl. Zach the (semi-sober, at least) chaperone, who’d ever have thought? Not that Chris is willing to read anything into the way Karl’s in his personal space, inches from his thigh, leaning on the table next to him. With Zach on the other side, he feels like Scarlett O’Hara holding some royal court. He suppresses a giggle – yeah, she was great with men, wasn’t she? Right until they all left her for somebody else or nobody, either.

Okay, he tells himself, Karl's only here and talking to him because he doesn’t know Zach’s friends, the two other guys Zach’s randomly invited to make things less ‘awkward’-- and the guys are so into each other, the way they’re making out on the couch, Noah watching them over his paws, that Zach can hardly be accused of neglecting them if he sticks to the kitchen.

“You haven’t moved all evening,” Chris says, very slowly, to Karl. He holds up the joint for him and Karl shakes his head.

“Sorry, Chris, stuff doesn’t agree with me—“

“It doesn’t agree with me!” Chris sways sideways and tightens his ass, closes his eyes to keep his balance somehow. He feels a hand on his arm. It’s Zach’s. Damn. He shrugs it off and jabs Karl in the chest with his finger, like Karl should pay for not being the one touching him. The ash from the joint flutters onto Karl’s shirt when he moves his hand away. “You weren’t supposed to come,” Chris says. “We were going to have a girls’ night.”

“Christopher…” Zach draws out each syllable of his name, like he’s a naughty school boy or something.

“I’m jus’ saying…” Chris tries to hand the joint to Karl again and Karl smiles, shaking his head. “And another thing, why don’t you do up all the buttons on your shirts – what have you got against buttons?” Karl’s looking at Chris in amusement and it’s melting his fucking heart and he needs to— “Zach, Zach, where’d you go?”

“I’m just fetching a gun, Christopher, to put you out of your misery. Karl, make sure he doesn’t fall off that table and dent the tiles – I’ve just completed the payments.” Then he glides out. Brian Boitano just fucking wishes.

Karl put his hand on Chris’ elbow, rights him again. His hand’s huge, so fucking warm. Chris feels nauseous all of a sudden.

“I need to lie down—“

“Not here, Chris.”

“But they’ve appropriated the couch and I was going to– look at that.” They turn, spend a few minutes taking in the sight of the two guys. Chris feels a bolt of desire light him up, groin to toe and back again-- and there he was thinking he could totally amputate his leg right now, and the condition he's in, he wouldn't feel a thing. But one touch from Karl and now he feels everything, like how Karl's so fucking close, the heat of his body, his breath's fruity and, fuck…Chris’ brain’s on vacation, left his mouth home alone and he hears himself say, “You ever kissed a guy, Karl?”

Chris feels it in slo-mo as he cocks his head to contemplate Karl, squints, purses his lips so he doesn’t miss the answer-- honestly, Chris can’t read that look, has no idea what Karl will say, wonders if he should get down from the table so he can boot the guys off what’s got to become his bed now, before he hurls all over Karl’s really nice, really unbuttoned shirt. Does the guy wax? It’s all tan… tan muscled…

“Not lately, no.” Karl’s voice is warm, his accent so… “How about you?”

“I’m a virgin, Mr. Urban,” Chris tries to force the words into rhyme, ignores how his heart’s just fucking leapt, hit the fucking down lighter overhead, trying not to notice how Karl’s suddenly just a little bit closer and maybe he’s leaning, his lips are…

“In that case,” Karl whispers, all Kiwi and so fucking sexy, (yes? what? yes?) “best to save your first kiss 'till you aren’t blotto, in case you end up hating yourself in the morning—”

“Kisss…”Chris can’t help imitating Karl’s voice, the hiss of that ‘i’-- but it seems Karl takes his little mimic as an invitation instead. Next thing he knows Karl’s out of focus so Chris closes his eyes, and there’re lips-- soft, hot lips pressing against his. Chris’ hand finds the front of Karl’s shirt when Karl’s tongue slides between his teeth to find Chris’, and he’s hungry now, all doubt out the window, so Chris sucks hard-- wants this so much, so much-- why’d he fight it, what’s the point? Shit, shit and then his mouth’s cool again and Karl’s gone. Chris fancies he hears the door to the street close behind Karl, even over the music.

Chris doesn't dare open his eyes. His hand, the one that clung and twisted in Karl’s shirt, ragged-bit nails scritching the skin underneath, has dropped to his thigh and fuck, if he opens his eyes now, what then? What then?

He’s still silently panting, eyes closed, room spinning a little around him, when he hears Zach’s voice.

“You’re a cretin, Chris. The King of Cretins.”

“La mot juste,” Chris slurs.

Yeah, Chris knows exactly what he is. Trouble is, his dick-- no, his fucking heart knows, as Karl would say, sweet Fanny Adams.

 

+++

 

Midnight, August 26, 2010

It's not as if they haven't had fights before-- but they've worked it all out, though it's always been Karl storming off in the past. This time-- He's never seen that dead look in Chris' eyes before, that and the dull even tone in his voice when he said he didn't leave marks on Karl, not like his wife. What does that even mean?

"Oof, mate, that's rough," says the cabbie, after Chris has-- sincerely, and fuck, that's the worst part, Karl knowing that he means it-- wished him the best and gotten out of the cab, walked up to his apartment door, shut it on Karl without looking back. "But what can you 'spect? No one wants to play second fiddle forever."

Karl's been in the business too long to get into fights with cab drivers. He throws some approximation of the fare and something for tip over the seat, says, "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," and gets out of the cab, slamming the door as he stands in the street and tries to decide what to do next. Chris is not second fiddle, no matter what moody snit he's worked himself into tonight. Jesus, it's going to be rough enough, sharing a house with Nat and the kids; he doesn't need Chris acting up on him too.

The cabbie rolls down his window.

"The things I don't know fuckall about in this town would fill tabloid mags from here to the moon, Dr. McCoy," the man says, his voice kind and his eyes full of-- Fuck, he doesn't want sympathy from a stranger. "But even I know you don't talk to your wife for fifteen minutes during Captain Kirk's birthday. That's just dumb cuntery, pure and simple, my man." He drops his voice low.

"Come on. He already paid his fare here," says the cabbie, Karl's money in hand. "So you can stand here like a dope or I can drive you back to your place. This is a shit neighborhood, I don't know why he lives here now that he's making real money. You'll get mugged waiting for a new cab, and I don't think you're going to last long if you try to go in after him now."

Karl looks up the walkway and Chris hasn't even turned on the lights-- lord knows what he's doing in there. But this being L.A. and all, wisdom comes from strange sources and the cabbie's totally right. He climbs back into the cab and pulls out his phone, checking the call timer.

Fifteen minutes, thirty two seconds. He'd just been asking how the boys were, settling a few details about when she thought they might get in, all of that stuff. Nothing too major. Why Chris was so upset over only a phone call... but then again, it was his birthday party, Karl could've called Nat back tomorrow.

You're right, I should have told her it wasn't the time, he types into his phone, and hits send as the cab pulls away and heads to his considerably more settled, more homey place. Chris' place is kind of a hodgepodge, Ikea and dorm-room and books all over the place, not that it isn't clean or comfortable in its own way. But Karl likes his stuff.

It won't happen again. I'll talk to her about boundaries tomorrow.

He figures that should appease Chris, who gets a little bit Berkeley wonk-speak on him at times, where even Karl thinks it crosses the line from adorably (and sexily) nerdy to pedantic. He did go to college, he's not fucking stupid-- but the way Chris talks sometimes, it's like he thinks Karl's neolithic.

There's no texted answer in the quiet drive back-- his driver, all wisdom in his wife-beater with his hairy back and arms looks more gorilla-like than the Buddha. Least he knows that at this point it's wise to keep his mouth shut-- and the walk up Karl's stairs seems longer than usual.

When was the last time he slept by himself?

 

\+ + +

 

September 10, 2010

You know, I worry when there're photos of you walking Zach's dog. You're allergic to fur. If you're not going to call or answer my texts, at least let the paps catch you with some Benadryl so I know you're not all over hives.

He stares at the email for a moment, then hits send with a stab vicious enough that his laptop skids on the island.

"Hey, what did that poor computer ever do to you, Karl?" Natalie asks, her voice rich and reminiscent of home-- except that it's not home, hasn't been for a while. He'd rather hear the raspy baritone and flat vowels of Chris' California-boy tones, though he'd deny he was the one with the accent. She's got a warm smile on her face and she's towelling her hair, the waft of chlorine following her from the pool where the boys are still splashing and yelling. They've been here a week and it's Nat's first full day off. Karl'd slept unexpectedly late, woken to the smell of Nat making breakfast, gotten trapped into eating with them.   
"Just like old times!" Nat had sung, and if Indy'd looked happy, Hunter had looked a little-- sanguine was really the only word to describe it, which was not a word he'd prefer to use for a pre-adolescent, but there it was-- he was the child of two people involved in the film world and he had to be wondering how long this domesticism would last. And Karl-- Karl'd been planning on going to Chris', trying to have this thing out, and instead his youngest had been so overjoyed at the thought of a whole day with mum and dad... Well-- fuck.

Karl doesn't answer, just pulls on a smile and shuts down the email before she can read over his shoulder, then cleans out the cache. Covers his papstalking tracks.... Nat knows about Chris-- knows about Chris too, even if she apparently doesn't want to think about it, even if she's sleeping in the guest room and Karl sure hasn't said a damned word about the fact that he and Chris aren't currently speaking. She'd chosen her new fellow-- thrown Karl out-- the fact that her romance had ended before Karl's-- well....

The fact that she's been more resistant to Chris and maybe wants to make up-- she's polite, but, even as she's never minded his "flings" with his feminine co-stars.... It makes him want to bang his head on the wall. Why does the fact that Chris has a cock make a difference? It was her idea, the whole open marriage, and lord knows he's put up with all her boyfriends for the sake of their being together when they're actually able to be, well-- together-- but now, when he's finally sure they don't work at all?

Fuck.

"You know, I hear Chris' play is getting lovely reviews." Natalie says, cutting into his thoughts. "And I love Martin McDonagh. We could get a sitter tonight for the boys, maybe call your friend John, ask Chris to set aside tickets and go see the play, maybe have dinner with Chris after the show?"

Karl looks up at her-- really? Did she just-- really?

"No. The run's over, Nat, a few weeks ago." Hah. Fucking ironic, that she doesn't even know the half of it.

Natalie's smile fades into a pout. "Well, maybe we can get together with Chris for dinner, then. I'm sure he's got a tape and I'd love to see it, I heard he was brilliant."

Of course Chris was good. Karl sat through every preview and Chris-- well, he's even better on stage than on screen and it's scary, almost. But-- really?

Instead, he draws a deep breath. He's not going to yell. But he's going to try to be very clear without giving all of it away. "Remember that talk we had a few weeks ago? I don't think Chris would be interested in your review, though he'd probably smile and say something polite, and I've already seen the show several times. You're here to work on your movie. I'm here to spend time with the kids. And it would be a bad, bad idea for you to call him without me, including if I found out about it after the fact." It comes out meaner than he intended.

Natalie draws back her shoulders and pulls on a sneer. It doesn't quite work. "I don't like you threatening me."

Karl shakes his head at what a farce this somehow's all become. At least when he fights with Chris-- not that they fight all that often, not really-- it feels-- real. This-- it's all so fucking hollow. "And I don't like you being passive-aggressive, not when we've been over this so many bloody times." He stands up, puts his hands on her shoulders, kisses her once on the forehead. "Nat. L.A.'s got too many good-looking boys who would do anything to get their leg over in the guest bedroom-- or hell, the master one, if you want me to clear out with the boys for a night, I can take them to any hotel-- for you to be wasting your time. It's not going to happen."

She sags a bit under his hands-- doesn't collapse, though, and then straightens back up and stands on her own. "Sorry," she says after a minute. "I know. I knew." She sniffles, then uses the towel still in her hands to wipe at her face. "I guess I just don't ..." she starts to say, then sits down on a bench at the island. "It's not like I didn't know we weren't..." She makes a gesture like two birds flying away from each other, expansive and graceful and small all at once.

The gesture-- her grace-- brings up in Karl's throat an echo of what used to be love-- the thing that used to confuse Karl in the weeks before Chris walked up his stairs and said he didn't leave marks, not like Natalie did, complete total bullshit-- "but I guess I figured it'd be some Amazonian, big-titted Hollywood Sheila." She laughs, and it's a genuine one. "Not someone who's better at reading to our kids at night than either one of us are, is prettier than me and yet has a bigger cock than you do, at least if that scene with the green girl's any tell whatsoever."

Karl throws his head back and laughs because Christ-- talk about anticlimax after all they've been through. He laughs-- and Nat does-- and he goes to sit on the couch and she joins him, Karl's arms wrapped around her in a hug. They laugh until they're both crying, while the boys splash in the pool, Indy screaming "You're a filthy Romulan and I'm going to phase you!" at the top of his lungs.

When they're both done, all the tension is gone, and Karl reaches over for the Kleenex Chris always buys because like Kirk, he's allergic to just about everything, and offers some to his wife.

"Oooh. These are nice. Not the perfumey, lotiony kind that make your nose all gunky and slimy, just all cozy and soft," Natalie says when she's done blowing her nose.

Karl blushes, though he doesn't know why, and Nat starts laughing at him.

"Chris must have bought them. He did!" She laughs at him and points. "You've always been a failure at shopping and stuff -- an utter disaster, you and the boys living on pizza and cereal if I was gone for more than a week. Bet you'd live on nothing but protein bars and beer if you were all on your own."

Karl sighs-- it's true. He's better off when he has a wife, he's not so good taking care of himself and-- shit. Shit. Shit. He springs off the couch, grabs his phone, hits the speed dial. "Sorry," he mouths as he goes off to the bedroom.

"Chris, look, I fucked up, I know it, I do, but it's over, really, it is. Nat and I talked and it's all done and dusted now. I promise," he says, looking up at the ceiling, at his closet, at the open drawers that still have Chris' tees and tight jeans and dumb sweaters, the ones he always makes fun of and so help him, he'll never mock Chris' hipster taste in clothes ever again. "I miss you. I need you. I always have, and I'm sorry if you ever, ever felt like you were unimportant because... you aren't and just ..." Chris' stupid red beanie from that GQ photoshoot lies on the floor of the closet, along with some of his stupid, dumb canvas sneakers, the ones Karl always made fun of. "Please?"

The voice mail cuts out before he can say anything else. He'd call it back, leave another rambling message, but Hunter comes in, leaving wet footprints on the rug. "Dad? Are you gonna come out to the pool?"

Might as well. He's already drowning.

 

\+ + +

 

They go out for pizza later for supper, some place near Graumann's that somehow Indy's heard all about-- or read all about on the internet somehow while he was playing WebKinz on the computer-- and Hunter and Indy are walking ahead, chortling about something or other.

He and Nat are walking behind-- what a difference a few hours can make. "So-- I really fucked things up for you, didn't I, babe, calling like a twat during his party?"

Karl nods, because what else can he say? "Yeah." He's already told her the gory details, right down to the cabbie cum Buddha. "And now he won't call me back, won't answer my emails or texts. I don't know what to do. Zach's out of town, which is why Chris is walking his dog, and in any event, he thinks I had it coming."

"He wants a go," Natalie offered, and Karl shook his head.

"No. They're really just mates. But ... Quinto's just ... gayer-than-thou and protective of Chris and he ... never approved of this thing." Much as Karl has tried until now to deny it and brush off Zach's hostile bitchery as the disapproval of a pseudo-intellectual hipster of someone he considered a boring hetero B-movie hack.

Who was married. With kids.

And fucking his previously always-straight-as-an-arrow best friend who was kind of a sensitive soul despite all the frat boy jokes that he pulled.

Right.

Nat sighs, and wraps her arm 'round his waist, leans in for half a hug. "Karl. I'm sorry. It sucks. All of it does." He gives her a peck on the top of her head back in thanks before they disentangle because the kids have scampered ahead and are putting their hands in the handprints in the Walk of Fame blocks-- and enough of Leonard McCoy has seeped into Karl for him to fret about germs. "Oi," he calls out to Indy, hauling him up by the waist. "You have any idea how gross that is, how many people've probably spit all over the pavement today?" Not to mention the homeless guys (and hell, drunk A-to-D listers, too) taking a piss but he doesn't need to bring that up now.

"But, Dad! It's DeForest Kelley," Indy protests, and hey, well, it is. Maybe things are looking up after all.

 

\+ + +

 

Chris doesn't read the gossip blogs-- avoids tabloids-- and stays away from the fansites as much as humanly possible now that he's gotten over the first round of press and has learned to deal-- somewhat. He doesn't even like to read the comments to the reviews of his plays in the press. Still, though-- the whole paparazzi thing's just fucking creepy, people's obsession with him and his life still so hard to get used to-- and every time he goes out, the people with cameras-- It's one thing to pose with the fans, sign their programs or shirts and smile and make conversation, but every inane press junket, every stupid dolt or chick with a microphone in his face....

He'll give them non-douchebag answers when they start coming up with original questions, thank you very much.

But it's L.A., and he's got to keep up with the news, so he subscribes to Variety, logs on to the Times, gets them delivered, and he can't help it, he's always been one to read the paper cover to cover, along with the New York Times and a few others. He tries not to look at the society pages but-- well-- even after almost a month, he's still fucking attuned to all things Karl Urban, so the picture of him-- pap shot, just more skillfully taken-- walking down the street with Nat and the kids, the kids running ahead, Nat's arm at his waist and Karl pressing a kiss into the top of her head with this look on his face like Karl doesn't know what he's done to deserve her....

He hadn't thought Karl was lying, just thought he was confused or conflicted or whateverthefuck. He'd never thought, to this point, that Karl'd just been trying to have it both ways-- but this photo? Well.

Chris knows better than to believe one photographed moment-- knows too that he's been cold-- childish, even, although Zach says he's being "resolute" and even John's said "It's not like he didn't have time to shit or get off the pot," despite his separate friendship with Karl-- and Chris could kiss him for that if it wouldn't make Keri roll her eyes and then bitchslap him even if she knows Chris wouldn't mean it-- in not responding to any of Karl's attempts to reach out-- but shit. He's just felt so fucking broken and knowing it's mostly his own fucking fault for getting involved with a married guy in the first place doesn't change that feeling at all. But to see that picture-- and the chatty "Family Man" caption and date-- and knowing it was taken just hours after Karl's message saying he and Nat were breaking it off? What's he supposed to believe?

Not himself anymore, that's for sure. All he's got is the sum of characters he's ever been, cobbled-together public personas for when he ventures out of the house. If anyone dug too fucking deep, all they'd get is rot-- either that or just an empty space. Whatever he'd been with Karl? To Karl? Clearly meant nothing, not if Karl was going to let himself be open to getting caught out like that. He didn't give a shit about whatever Chris thought.

He's got a stack of scripts on his couch, and empty takeout and beer containers all over the house-- the signs of a man in full heartbroken wallow-- never mind all the fucking notebooks he's filled with stupid self-pitying stories and just-- shit-- these last several weeks, at least when Noah and Harold haven't needed him to get his head out of his ass so they won't starve... But Zach'll be back on Friday, and he's had that call from J.J.'s friend over at Paramount about that last-minute replacement for their really big star. Which was a flattering call to get, all in all.

What the fuck, right? He might as well get a rep as being helpful, easy-going, a pinch-hitter, and if he does well...

He's never done a period film. Or spent much time in France. Karl can have L.A. and Nat and his kids. Chris'll take the rest of the world.

 

\+ + +

 

September 13, 2010

His phone rings while he's tossing Hunter into the deep end, so he lets it ring over. It's Nat who calls it to his attention.

"Karl," she says, the note in her tone-- hesitant. Warning. She's drinking something white in a glass, cigarette in her hand, as she holds up his phone. "You should...."

Dripping, he walks over, picks up the phone, looks at the caller I.D., then dials through to his voice mail with cold hands.

"It's Chris, hoped to stop by later today. Give me a call." His tone gives nothing away, as flat as it was the last time they spoke.

He calls him back, number two-- fuck-- oh, fuck, Chris would've already known that-- on his speed dial, hoping it doesn't turn into telephone tag. Chris picks up on the third ring, like he was trying to decide whether or not he should answer.

"Hey," Karl says, clearing his throat. "I don't have any plans, you can come by any time. Nat'll go, take the kids..." he begins, but Chris cuts him off.

"It won't take long," Chris responds, his tone ... toneless. "I'll be by in an hour." He hangs up before Karl can protest, leaving Karl to stare at the device like-- Well, fuck if he knows. He'd better call someone who does, even if it involves eating shit.

He scrolls through his contacts and dials the number, listens to the pretentious message, or maybe he's just predisposed. The weight of disapproval always did weigh heavy on Karl.

"Zach, it's Karl, I'd appreciate if you'd give me a call sometime in the next hour. Please. It's..." He looks up and Nat tells him the time-- he repeats it into the message, and then somehow finishes off, hangs up, sets the phone down, rubs his hand over his face, stares at it. When he looks up, Nat's out of her seat.

"Boys!" she's calling from the side of the pool. "Anyone fancy Disneyland?"

Karl'd been telling them just yesterday that they couldn't go every week, it was too expensive no matter how much money they had, but right now he's too grateful to Nat for her help to be annoyed by the contradiction it poses. The boys boil out of the pool like they've been shot from a cannon.

"Come on. Into the shower," Nat chivvies, the three making their way into the house, chlorinated footsteps marking their travel.   
Which leaves Karl to stand like the drip that he is on the deck and wonder-- after three weeks of not hearing from Chris, not one fucking word after all of Karl's efforts, why now, all of a sudden?

 

+++

 

Sure-- he'd said an hour and it was forty-five minutes, but Chris can't help dreading or being early-- he's clearly more meant for New York than L.A. Always has been displaced, out of sorts, something-- never quite the right fit. He stares up at Karl's house before girding his metaphorical loins, then lets his inner Zach urge him out of the car.

Stop being a pussy and get on with your life, bitch, inner-Zach says. Right. He gets out, pops the trunk, grabs the box, heads up the stairs, rings the bell. Doesn't bounce on the balls of his feet. Doesn't puke on Karl's shoes when he opens the door, how fucking tan and gorgeous and perfect he looks. Karl's puzzled "why didn't you use your key?" fades as he steps aside to let Chris into the house, his eyes flickering off to the side like he's nervous-- he doesn't seem to take in the box as Chris enters and sets it down on the island-- Jesus, first place they'd fucked-- after moving aside-- fuck-- Natalie's purse, what looks like Indy's favorite stuffed rhino, the one he brings everywhere that he goes. They were still here. Shit shit shit shit.

Drop and go, turn around and get the fuck out.

"Daddy!" Indy says, barreling out into the kitchen, "Mum says we can get out photos snapped with Pluto if he's around! Isn't that awesome?" Only then does he take in the intruder.

"Chris!"

It's so fucked up, this little tableau, that the kid runs over and hugs him, and Jesus, Chris isn't going to bawl, he's just not, he's just going to say hi and...

"Chris is here?" Hunter comes running out from the hallway-- he hasn't even put his shoes on, his shirt either. "Hey!" he says, tackling Chris and trapping his little brother between them. "You haven't come over," he says, mumbling into Chris' shirt. The last time they'd been here, he'd asked Chris about surfing or bodyboarding out at the pier and Chris had said yes-- but this, now--

Indy's "yeah" is just as accusing, and now, just fucking great, he's got two little Urbans glaring at him with Karl's mouth and Karl's eyes all at work.

"Uh," he says, lost for words because really, what explanation to give them?

"Hey, don't give him a hard time, Chris has had a big play, he's got rehearsals all day and then shows every night," Karl lies, interjecting, because the play's been done for a month, and then Natalie swans into the room because right, it's a family drama, now that the entry of the outsider's complete. She looks gorgeous as always, tiny and tan and self-possessed as all hell, and the boys go to tug on her arms and tow her over to Chris.

He's an actor. He smiles.

Indy smiles, like he's got an idea. It doesn't bode well. "Are you coming to Disneyland too? Dad, you're coming, right?"

Hunter looks between Chris and Karl, then takes in the box on the island. "What's in there?"

Chris can do this. Audiences are what he does for a living, even this one. He steels his voice and smiles at the kids-- he loved hanging out with them, never had thought about that kind of stuff-- well, before Karl. "Some stuff of your Dad's, I'm going off on a shoot starting Saturday for a couple of months."

"Saturday?" Karl's voice comes out in a bark and the kids' heads ping-pong between all the adults.

Natalie makes a lunge for her purse. "Well, Chris, lovely to see you, but I'd better get the kids going," she says, and proceeds to grab for Indy's hand just as Hunter narrows his eyes.

"You guys are fighting," he says, glaring hard at his father, who just looks nervous and trapped. Oh. Fuck. Hollywood. Or not-Hollywood, since Chris didn't know anyone in L.A. who had a family like Karl and Natalie did. His upbringing was positively bourgeois, compared, and he was shit at this game, always had been. It was why he was such a damned needy fuck. And Chris isn't going to lie to the kids, though-- not for his own part-- but it's too much and Jesus, these are Karl's kids that he's gotten involved with and how the hell is he supposed to explain it to them when she and Karl don't know how?

"I'm the third wheel, kids, and I'm bowing out because I love your Dad too much to ask him to break it off with your Mom?" Indy's too young and while Hunter's a smart kid-- knows the story, more than Chris wants to think about, really, because it's not something he wants to deal with. The fact that they even accept the whole open marriage thing in the first place-- Jesus, it's too much for Chris.

"Talk to your father," is all that he manages, before he turns and walks out of the house. Smooth. Really smooth. He leaves the house keys in the bowl by the door, because fuck knows he won't need them.

He's almost all the way out to the car before Karl catches up. "Chris," he says, wild-eyed, and he grabs Chris' arm in a grip that hurts-- on reflex, Chris shoves him away. The older man looks almost shocked at the force of Chris' recoil but-- Jesus, the last thing he needs is Karl touching him. Bad things always result, from first kisses on out.

"I thought you were coming over to talk," Karl says, and Chris shakes his head-- why would he do that?

"I never said that. I just ... look, I'm subletting my place, changing the locks for the tenants, thought I'd better bring you your stuff," Chris answers, because really-- that's all. Well, that and masochism, since he could have sent the damned box. But ... he didn't want to haul off to Europe without seeing Karl.

"But ..." Karl says, and goes to reach for him again. Chris slides aside, and this time it's not nearly so hard. He just has to make it through tonight and tomorrow and then he'll be on a plane.

"Don't," he says-- all he says, but Karl looks lost, like he just doesn't get it and Jesus, how can't he?

"Where are you going? And why?"

Chris could almost-- no-- he actually does because he's stupid like that-- feel sorry for Karl. "You really need to start reading the papers," he says, and then steps around Karl enough to open the door, get in, start the engine. It's enough of a vague statement to get Karl to shake his head in confusion, moving a bit-- and it's all the room that Chris needs to drive off, a mere six inches between Karl on the curb and the driver's side door.

He lets his inner Zach chide him when he looks in the rear and side view mirrors as he lets the car coast down the hill, but what the fuck, right? Movie breakups always are maudlin, but then the heroine gets on with her life. And that's what he's going to do. Even if he has to work himself into the ground to get that shit done.

continued in part 3


	3. Chapter 3

part 3

 

February 1, 2008

Karl wants the ground to swallow him up.

He hadn’t planned it that way. Sure, he was apprehensive about bumping into Chris on set the next day, but mostly he’s been horny, looking forward to seeing him. Yeah, it was never going to be a doddle, but this? Karl hadn’t expected this-- awkwardness.

There was going to be a line, something like: “About last night-“ or “We should talk-“.

Instead, when they finished up the ‘reunion in the transporter’ scene, which now seems bloody ironic, if you ask Karl, they’re by the coffee machine again. Karl nods at Chris, says, “I—“ and Chris catches his eye, unblinking, and it’s-- Jesus, a warning. It’s unmistakable – Chris is saying ‘back off’ with those calm, hot, entirely sober eyes. Bugger. Karl gulps, takes his coffee, chats to Simon, who’s just strolled up grinning ear to ear. Kart can’t make out a bloody word Simon’s saying, all he can hear is an echo in his head of “Cold light of day, cold light of day…”

 

+++

 

Hours later, Karl looks across the canteen, tray in hand, and wavers. Chris is laughing with Zach, there’s a couple of crew sitting with them, and one empty seat. It’s like school again. See, ordinarily he’d have joined them without thinking twice-- but now when he’s-- when they've got a shit-load of stuff to discuss, there aren’t any words. Just cold silence. Something’s changed and it feels like he’s lost a mate.

So, Karl goes from butterflies, anticipation, willing hours to just pass so he can see Chris alone again, to knowing that it’s not going to happen. He’s treading water, just waiting for the whole fucking shoot to be done and dusted.

It gets worse. He loses count of the number of times he sits down and Chris moves. Karl walks into a space and Chris leaves. It’s not flouncy, it’s not hissy, it’s just a Rubik's cube, one piece falls in and the other makes room. And it’s so bloody obvious. Karl can’t imagine how people won’t be talking about them, this ‘cooling off’. He and Chris used to be so tight.

Karl thinks back to how they’d been – solid, mates, finishing each others' sentences when the movie first started, though in a different way, more dorky and pal-ling around than Chris and Quinto and their flirty stupid battles of words. Now, thanks to that one bloody hot, longed-for moment – it’s all over.

 

+++

 

Mid-February, 2008

Karl packs up his cubbie, chucks his crap into a duffel, checks his email one last time-- of course, nothing-- and checks for McCoy’s ring in his pocket. He removes his boys' photo, rubs his hand over the stains on the partition. His eyes sweep across the bridge and he considers sitting in the captain’s chair one last time, then decides against it after remembering the last shot of the day, Chris in the chair looking relieved as the ship pulled away from the black hole, smiling like he'd pulled off some miracle he never thought he'd get away with.

He’ll never get used to this, the end of everything. The cast gets so close, everyone works so well together, it’s bloody intense and then it’s goodbye, it’s a wrap. He remembers what he’s achieved to get this part, and he thinks he’s pulled it off, they all have. It just feels right-- after a moment, he decides that he’s happy, despite the Chris-sized stone in his shoe.

Karl runs his hand through his hair, thinks he’d better get it cut soon. “See you tonight, Peggo,” he says to Simon. Then he nods at Zach, who’s also been cool to him the past few days – Zach has this way of keeping his head still and swiveling his eyes heavenwards, like an upside down blink that just says so much without changing the rest of his face. No wonder he’s such a great Spock – but the message, whatever it is, is too subtle for Karl. He’s a guy needs things spelled out-- frankly, he’s glad he’s going home, back to plain speaking and bloking around, and away from hidden feelings. Least he’ll be able to call cigarettes ‘fags’ again without getting into trouble.

There’s no sign of Chris, who hasn’t seemed that fussed about saying goodbye. Karl’s a mix of pissed off and hurt, but he shrugs it off.

There's just one more ‘awkward’ to get through and then they’ll all go their separate ways - JJ’s party, cast only, at his place in the Palisades. Karl feels like he’s got an anvil sitting in his stomach but he can do this, he’s a fucking actor after all, and he wants everything to end on a good note before he flies home tomorrow and, hell, they’ve got tons to celebrate. It’s gonna be, as the Americans are so fond of saying, awesome.

 

+++

 

“We alright?” Karl manages to say to Zach outside, in JJ’s garden.

“Sure.” Zach leans on the porch rail. He doesn't do that upward blink thing. He even makes eye contact.

It’s something, Karl thinks, grinding his cigarette underfoot and tossing it in the bushes.

 

+++

 

Karl’s a positive bloke – everyone tells him. Tonight he’s not so sure. He watches for Chris, feels he ought to end things so they're okay, 'cause it’ll be months until they see each other again. He sidles up a few times, by the poolside where they’re drinking cocktails, in JJ’s den where he watches how Chris picks up the guitar and gets a lump in his throat because Chris looks so fucking sexy, but there’s always someone around. Chris is avoiding his eye and he never gets to say “See you around,” or “We’ll have a beer in Sydney.” Arsehole, Karl chides himself; this is why he’s not a writer– fucking words.

And he drinks way too much– whatever, it’s what blokes do and he’s pleased he gets a chance to zone out in JJ’s movie room. He gave The Philadelphia Story a miss but Cloverfield, how can he pass that up? There’s a few of them sprawled on cushions-- John, John’s wife, Zoe, a couple of production staff, American voices everywhere and he feels lost all of a sudden, a stranger and he’s aching to be home. He can’t bloody wait to see the boys, to crash out in his own fucking bed, to talk things through with Nat. It’s all fixable, this crap between them even though she’s assured him it’s not. She doesn’t want him anymore, fine, he’ll listen to what she has to say but it’s best done face to face.

He sighs, looks up at the screen – it’s the boring bit, all the posh kids at the party and Karl thinks, if he times it right, he can be back for the really cool scene, the Statue of Liberty’s head landing on the pavement. He’ll get Simon in here, they can say “whoah” together and fuck – where the hell is Chris anyway? Probably glued to Zach’s side again. Maybe this is what it’s all about– maybe Zach is making a move. No wonder he’s been acting like a jealous wife all week. Karl gets to his feet, a bit unsteady – how come it’s taken him this long to work it out? It’s Spock and Kirk, of course, the oldest slash pairing. Karl never stood a chance. What a wanker.

JJ pointedly closes the patio door behind him when Karl lights up and Karl sighs, breathes a plume of smoke into the darkness. Tomorrow. No more awkward approach and retreat of the gorgeous, smart young thing he never stood a chance with from the beginning-- what the hell was he thinking? A couple more hours and he can go home. Until then, he’ll hang out here, in the special circle of hell saved for the lustful.

 

+++

 

He’s two steps away from the movie room when Karl makes a decision. He’s seen the movie half a dozen times – it won’t make much odds if he misses another five minutes so he looks over his shoulder, then turns left and heads towards the library. It’s a large (of course) airy room with a gallery and one of those cool ladders on wheels you can slide along to access the higher shelves. The only sound is the air-conditioning’s humming when he slides the door open, nips inside, eases it back behind him and, Karl can’t help taking a moment to enjoy the sight of Chris in an unselfconscious moment.

He’s draped on the chaise, one leg up, one on the floor, a hand under his head, engrossed in a book, an adorable frown on his face. Karl kind of hates himself for using such a word but, really, it’s the only one that’ll fit. Actually, he wants to drag Chris over the coffee table and kiss him again, like he’s been imagining (and more, so much fucking more) for the past few days-- fine-- too much longer than that-- but of course it’s not going to happen.

“Chris, I…”

Chris looks up and there’s a flicker of surprise there, something more, too-- but Chris adjusts to the unwelcome sight of his presence almost immediately, though not before Karl registers that look, like Chris feels cornered, caught or dragged back to somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

“You read this?" Chris says, his voice even and maybe a little flat. He looks away, closes the book around his thumb, angling the cover so Karl can see. Some old, French book – Karl hates the way Chris, Anton and Zach do this shit, name-checking European writers, poets, dead, dry boring bastards – what the fuck does he care?

“Nah,” Karl says. “Nat made me watch the TV series, she likes that costume stuff. It was alright, yeah, but not really my cup of tea.”

Chris blinks in response. Right, he’s being rude now. Karl feels his jaw set, but he’s going to give it one more go and change tacks. “You not drinking?” Karl indicates the bottle of mineral water on the coffee table.

Chris looks away, turns his arm so Karl can see the band-aid, “Gave blood today.” Why didn’t he do that some other day, Karl wonders, so he could drink tonight with everyone else– Karl just doesn’t get it.

“What’s happening?” Chris asks, flicks a thumb towards the door. It’s the first ‘in’ he's had in a week, so Karl takes it, moves closer. When Chris scoots up, Karl sits down at one end, Chris safely up at the other. Then he sidles a little bit closer – and they’re mates, right? Mates get up in each others' space. Maybe this awkward shit’s all in his head, maybe Chris is just out of sorts, pissed off about something else… but he wishes he’d brought a drink in so he has something else to do with his hands, something to stop him. He tries not to flinch when Chris suddenly moves, slides the water bottle over slightly towards Karl, like a chess piece or something. Karl’s starting to think he’s not much cop at chess – what with Hunter and Anton beating him all of the time.

“They’re watching movies. Leonard’s gone home, Eric too. Just us old drinkers – well, ‘cept you’re not drinking…” Karl looks at the book again. Why is Chris hiding in here? “Any good?”

“Want to know something—?”

Karl’s voice is practically a croak. “—no, what’s that?”

“It’s depressing as hell!” Chris says, smiling wryly so his eyes crinkle and Karl’s heart flips. His eyes meet Chris’, flicker toward his lips. He can't fucking help it-- he's thought too much about Chris almost from the start-- stupid flash of hurt on the kid's face for that little split second before he oh-so-politely started tearing J.J. a new one before they started filming their scene, his lips twitching and eyes flashing and back tight, shoulders straight, posture so fucking proud, and all Karl could think at the moment he'd jumped to Chris' defense while everyone else stood 'round like a boob besides "Not fair" was "Bloody damned gorgeous."

“Read me a bit—“

“Yeah, okay…” Chris says. Karl watches Chris’s fingers as they leaf through the pages, an intent look on his face. He looks up at Karl again, those bloody blue eyes cutting right through him. “So Emma’s just had sex with the guy, the one she’s not married to-- well, one of the ones she's not married to, there are a couple: She remembered the heroines of novels she had read, and the lyrical legion of those adulterous women began to sing in her memory with sisterly voices that enchanted her…” Karl listens as Chris reads on and Karl can’t really hear or get a fucking word of it, is just too mesmerized by Chris’ voice, yet if only he listened carefully, he knows Chris wants him to hear something... but Karl’s suddenly aware of how shallow his breaths are, how Chris looks up when he’s done reading, then looks away, like he’s thinking the same thing as Karl. He takes a chance-- Karl can’t be responsible, not when Chris looks like that, still so fucking vulnerable, gorgeous, smart, jesus, fuck...

Karl places a hand on Chris’ thigh-- waits-- and when it’s not pushed away, he lets it slide a bit higher just as he leans in, takes Chris’ jaw with his other hand and guides their lips together. Chris just submits, doesn't resist, fight or grumble. He lets out an almost imperceptible moan as he raises his hand to Karl’s bicep and just crumples against Karl like-- like a swooning heroine. Then he’s pushing Karl’s arm, like he’s trying to untangle them and Karl wants to say, “Make your fucking mind up, mate—“ but it’s all he can do to remember to breathe, the way Chris’ tongue is rolling with his, pushing into his mouth and then his teeth are biting gently at Karl’s lower lip until he pulls his head back and gasps--

“Karl, fuck, we’ll…”

Karl opens his eyes, turns his head to the door, but there’s no one there. He has to close them again– he doesn’t want this to be real in some kind of fucked up way-- it’s better like this, just them, just the soft, sweet tongue that tastes of water and cigarettes tangling with his, the heat of Chris’ breath, the snag of his teeth when their mouths go out of sync and then, Jesus, Chris’ hand slides down from Karl's arm to Karl’s waistband, exploring his cock through his jeans.

“Fuck, I, fuck—“ Chris says against Karl’s mouth and they pull apart, panting. Chris’ lips are plump-- bruised-- where Karl’s bitten their edges and he wants more, wants to fill up now, for the times they won’t be like this, because one thing he knows for sure is that this can’t last before Chris, the moody git, has another of his… “Let’s get out of here,” Chris whispers into Karl’s neck.

 

+++

 

Chris drives since he’s sober, but they take Karl’s car since it’s being collected by the car hire in the morning. They don’t speak, don’t touch – it’s not an easy silence by any measure. Chris glances at Karl whenever they wait at the lights-- Karl watches Chris' profile in the passing car and street light, and he’s harder than hell-- he can still feel how Chris collapsed as soon as Karl touched him, kissed him, and he can't wait to feel that, do that again.

“Fuck, I should call JJ—“ Karl says suddenly, remembering they just walked out separately— bloody rude of them really…

“You’re too drunk,” Chris says. “I’ll text him. Say I took you home—later, maybe. I should call Zach, though, he’ll worry.” He pulls off the highway, but to Karl's surprise keeps going until he finds a deserted street. He parks, gives Karl an impenetrable look and picks up his cell. But Karl doesn't want to think about Zach and his eyebrows-- he takes the phone from Chris’ hand, tosses it on the dash and unbuckles his seat belt. Chris watches his movements, unbuckles his own, leans across and fists Karl’s shirt.

“Just so you know,” Chris says, his voice husky, “I think this is a really fucking bad idea— seriously fucked up—“

“O-kay…” Karl says, leaning back to make room when Chris grabs the steering wheel for leverage, half stands, and with supreme elegance turns in the confined space and straddles Karl’s thighs. Karl sighs under the weight of him, at last, Karl thinks, about bloody time. Karl can feel Chris' breath on his face, moist with a hint of cigarettes. When Chris braces his hands, one on the side window, the other on the roof, and cants his hips so their cocks are pressed together through their jeans, Karl bites his lip, in case he says the wrong thing, breaks the spell— and slides his hands up the back of Chris’ cashmere cardigan, under his tee, staring up at perfect stubble, parted lips, wanting this bastard so fucking bad he has no idea why he’s not done this sooner, how he's ever stopped himself, why he never said anything.

“We get caught, our careers are fucking over—“ Chris whispers, dipping to rest his lips against Karl’s in case he’d be dumb enough to contradict him. “George Michael will have to step up his game big time.”

Karl chuckles, pushes at the small of Chris' back with an open hand, the other tugging in the short hair at the nape of his neck, so Chris tips forward until their mouths touch again. He wrestles his arms into the space between them, undoes his pants, with his forehead pressed against Chris' throat, breathing him in, wanting to memorize every detail.

“Up,” he says and Chris eases off Karl’s lap for a moment until Karl’s got his cock free, running his thumb up and down the length in wonder. Chris momentarily lets go of where he’s pressed against the ceiling and spits into his hand a couple of times, transfers the make-shift lube to his dick, then pulls Karl’s loose. It’s not easy, getting the right angle, lining up their erections but, Karl thinks with a grunt, you have to put in the effort and he watches Chris’ jaw tense, soaks up the hiss of lust from his pretty fucking lips as Karl encircles them both and wanks gently up and down, doubting he’s gonna last more than thirty seconds, boozed up or not.

He tips his head back, licks his lips and Chris gets the hint, leans forward and kisses him hard, never breaking contact, tongues wrestling, swallowing each others' moans until they both come hard, soaking Karl’s shirt and Chris' stomach with what seems like an endless stream of cum, like neither of them's had an orgasm for weeks. Maybe not-- but one thing Karl knows, it’s never felt like this before, never felt like he's been turned inside out.

Inside out in a car on the side of a road in the middle of the night in L.A. by his male co-star. Right. Whatever. He pulls Chris' lips down for another mashing, hard kiss.

 

+++

 

Chris wakes the next morning with the feel of Karl’s mouth around his cock again. They’ve barely slept, just dozed in between touching, sucking and licking each other, jerking each other off, swallowing each other like their lives depended on it. It's been a revelation how fucking much they've both apparently wanted this and Chris' face aches from smiling. He's sore, dehydrated and never been fucking happier-- or more scared in his life.

“I need to pee,” he says, his voice fuck-stoned and harsh in his throat-- worn from crying out and gasping for hours.

Karl chuckles between Chris’ thighs, his hair soft on Chris's skin, but he doesn't let go. Chris’ hand flops down to Karl’s head and twists through sweat-thickened hair. He’ll blame this dizziness on giving blood yesterday, he should have made sure to eat more. Yeah, that’s why – no way this has anything to do with his stupid man crush. His bladder’s protesting but his cock’s on fire-- again, supersensitive so the feel of Karl's insatiable mouth is almost painful. “Seriously, man, I’m gonna have to go to the bathroom—“

“Go on then, lightweight,” Karl says, releasing Chris’ cock with an obscene slurp. Chris looks down at him— he’s got an amazing bed-hair look going on, his eyebrows are mussed, eyes hooded, and Jesus-fuck, he has to find another word for ‘beautiful’, I mean, Karl’s a guy, a guy.

“You’re gonna have to let go—“ Chris says weakly, running his thumb across Karl’s swollen lips.

Karl’s hands are pressing down stubborn and strong onto Chris’ inner thighs, so with a grin he takes Karl’s wrists and stands up on wobbly legs. Hops to the bathroom and takes forever to pee, never easy with an erection. “I’m getting coffee,” he calls, flushes and bounces down the stairs to the kitchen. While the machine drips, Chris goes to the fridge and the smirk freezes on his face like he’s been slapped. This must be Karl’s kids, pics held in place by Trek fridge magnets, because he recognises them from Karl’s cubicle --- and it’s like the elevator’s dropped from under him. Elevator. Floor. La Brea fault line. Yeah. That.

“Black for me.“ Karl’s behind him now, naked, warm, sticky, pressing the length of his body against Chris’ back, one leg pushing his feet apart and Karl’s hard, nudging at his ass like he's got some fucking right now, Kiwi fucking voice in his ear. “Hey, what’s up?”

Chris slides the magnet away, turns in Karl’s arms and holds one of the pics aloft. He can feel white rage, fear, despair, nothing good, rippling through his chest like termites, maybe fire ants, because it burns, this feeling, whatever it is. Karl glances at the photo, then back at Chris’ unguarded expression. He frowns, his lips twitch, and hopefully he doesn't notice how tears prick at Chris’ eyes. He slides his hands down Chris' hips, back over his ass, and Chris hates how hard he's getting again. “Like I said, this is fucked up-- so fucking wrong—“

“You don’t understand,” Karl says finally, smooth as you like, eyes fixed on Chris’ mouth, pointedly not looking at the photo. “It’s fine, trust me…” He leans in and tries to kiss Chris, but Chris turns his head away, feels forceful lips on his jaw. “It’s complicated, not your usual 'thing', true, but Nat and me—” Her name cuts through Chris. “—we’re unconventional, otherwise…” And Karl's teeth are grazing along Chris' jaw, finding his throat. “...I wouldn’t be doing this with you, would I?”

Chris doesn't fucking know — his head's foggy, he needs a coffee, needs some sleep, shit, no-- he needs this. With a last vestige of strength, his head flips back, bumps the fridge, and the photo falls from his hand when Karl steers him to the island, eyes burning with intent, and pulls out a stool. "Shush, " he growls, and bends Chris over it so his belly’s digging into the wood. All the fight's gone out of him, his knees practically locked in a weird combination of lust and something else he has the right word for but doesn't want to put on it yet-- so Chris stays in that position, ass in the air, cock thickening like it’s got no sense at all, pinned in place by Karl's voice.

“You need to calm down, mate, trust me – “ Karl says, and Chris can hear Karl rummaging in a cupboard. Chris can smell olive oil, and Karl’s hand is slithering in between his ass cheeks, stops when he comes to Chris’ hole, hesitates like he's regarding his fucking kingdom or something, and then rams a finger in with no warning, tugging out a whine of surprised want. Chris has done this before, once with some girl who was particularly dom and insisted he’d like it. It was okay, but it hadn’t felt like this, not the way Karl crooks his finger, finds something inside him. Chris tries to stand, to get away from the overwhelming sensation, but— “Nice?” Karl says into his ear, his voice a low growl.

“Oh yeah…fuck…” And Chris crumples at Karl's hands on him and in him and his voice in his ear.

And then there's sharp pain when what, one, two fingers are added? Maybe Chris should tell Karl this is new, maybe he’d slow the fuck down but the way he’s got a hand on Chris' shoulder, the other twisting and filling him, it feels so fucking good-- while it hurts like hell Chris is moaning, begging even. What the hell happened, where the hell did Chris lose any good sense like this? How's he ever going to come back?

“How about now? You like this, Chris, the way I’m spreading you wide, opening you up?” God, that voice, like an incubus, dark, owning, so beautiful.

“Hngh…oh…yeah, yeah…” And Chris is only harsh breaths, he’s totally losing it now, the way each thrust of Karl’s hand is unleashing heat, hot and oh, he can’t think, he’s a torrent of want. “Need you to…” All he can do is watch his hands claw on the island-- can only fall forward, nose dripping sweat onto the tile.

“What, baby, what? What do you need me to do?”

Lips brand his back and Chris grates out, “Fuck me, I need you to fuck me....“

Karl sinks his teeth into Chris’ shoulder and Chris realises, with the part of his brain that can string sentences together still, just, that he’s needed this so much, wanted this so much that he might have up and died without it. Karl grunts with lust and Chris knows he’s lubing up, from the sloppy sounds behind him, and he braces himself, arms wrapped around the back of the bar stool, horribly exposed, his balls hanging down, half up on his toes, face sweaty and contorted, rolling against his arms as he rides through the pain as Karl breaches him.

“Hurts…” Chris manages to say. Karl hesitates for a second but doesn’t say anything, grunts again, when he pushes forward another half inch, sending concentric circles of hot pain though Chris who can’t protest, won’t ask Karl to stop, he needs this, needs— “Oh, fuck, oh fuck…” Another inch and Karl stills, maybe trying to stop himself from coming or maybe aware that what Chris needs is for Karl to slam into him hard, put an end to this, and he just loves that feeling of power.

“I got you,“ Karl says, voice feral and claiming and he thrusts forward again, balls bumping into Chris' ass until he’s fully seated, his hands stroking Chris’ back, soothing-- and then he’s scouring Chris' skin with his nails, a little too hard. Chris knows he’ll be covered in bruises, teeth marks and scrapes and it turns him on so fucking much that he almost comes there and then. He tries to get his hand on his cock, but Karl reaches and bats it away. “Not 'till I say so, okay?”

Chris nods into his arms, and pushes his ass back into Karl. “Harder, Karl, please…”

Karl doesn’t need asking twice and he practically splits Chris open with his first, full, long thrust. Chris gasps, doesn’t know if he can take it, complains incoherently through sounds he’s never heard before from somewhere deep in his throat-- from his heart, maybe.

“Like this?” Karl says, holding him still, panting behind him. Chris can’t form words now, can barely nod, his body slumping and limp, no longer his but Karl’s to do with as he wants so Karl pulls out, manhandles Chris to the cold tile floor so he’s on his back. Chris just lies there, looking up at him, taking in the glorious sight of Karl Urban, who's here and his. He doesn't protest when Karl lifts Chris’ legs so they can wrap around his back, hanging onto his ankles to stop them from flopping-- Chris is boneless, spineless, he’s jello.

Karl angles Chris’ hips, leans over him and thrusts his tongue into Chris’ mouth in time with his cock sliding in, so easily now and he’s found a cluster of nerves Chris didn’t know he that he had and suddenly— the pain’s dissolved and half a dozen long, brutal thrusts and Chris is coming so fucking hard, without Karl even touching his cock, ropes of cum hitting his chest and face with Karl swallowing his last breaths until, minutes later, he comes himself, biting on Chris’ tongue, muttering things Chris daren't believe, emptying himself into Chris' ass for what seems like an age.

 

+++

 

Chris keeps his eyes dead front as he steps gingerly into the cab. His mouth is still moist from Karl’s tender kisses a minute ago, his head is empty of every thought except when, when can he see Karl again. “Call me when you get home, doesn’t matter what the time is,” he’d said.

“Yeah,” Karl had replied, his eyes dark and impenetrable. “Soon as I can get away…”

And so it begins.

continued in part 4


	4. Chapter 4

part 4

 

November 21, 2007

"Hey, buddy, what's up?"

Chris would make some joke about long faces or something like that but Karl's in a serious mood, seems like, and that's not usually like him, at least not in the-- geez, only three weeks-- they've known each other. They've had beers a handful of times, played pool-- even went out for Go-Karts one night with the cast that had Zach and Zoe rolling their eyes but everyone else'd had a good time and Karl especially-- he was just a big kid sometimes.

Karl looks up from his laptop and whatever email he's been reading, deciding something before he gives Chris an answer. He rubs his forehead in a way that's not unlike McCoy.

"Ah-- just bullshit with trying to get the time zones right for talking with Hunter and Indy, I keep missing them," Karl says, and he looks tired, hangdog even. Well, that's no good.

"What, no good time for Skyping?" Chris asks, because that's got to suck, not seeing your kids, and this week's Thanksgiving. Do New Zealanders do that?

"What's that?" Karl replies absently, his eyes flicking back to the email. Chris peeks-- it's N, something. Got to be Natalie, Karl's wife.

"Free internet phone, voice conferencing stuff?" For all that he's a geek, Karl's kind of out of it, too. "They have this software, you've got a camera on your laptop already, here," he says, leaning in, tapping. "If your wife has one, too, then you can totally vid-call your kids, see them in person and shit. Use it with my sister and nephews sometimes, the rest of my family when we're all off on shoots."

The smile Karl gives him is silly and gold all at once. "Yeah?"

Chris nods, a little bit dumbstruck-- but hey. Matters at hand. He leans over Karl to type in the web address in a new tab and downloads the software. "See, you just send her the link, tell her when's a good time, it automatically connects with the camera in your laptop, it's all really easy, and then pow, bingo, you're all set."

Karl looks really excited, like Chris has given him some really big present, rather than a link to a website that his agent should have been using with him for conference calls on a regular basis, or something even more glitzy, established. But whatever, right? Different folks, different strokes. Who's Chris to guess at the way Karl's always done things? He's a big fucking deal, all set and established. What the hell does Chris know?

"Hey... this is really cool. Thanks, Chris, I mean it..." Karl is already typing-- not quite distracted as he cut and pastes stuff into an email. He turns around once again, and gives Chris that same big, relieved grin. "Give me ten minutes, eh, I missed lunch. I could do with Italian or something for supper. You have any plans?"

Chris shakes his head. Other than GTA and a pizza in front of the console by himself? Not really, no.

 

+++

 

September 13, 2010

Karl feels like he's been gutted as he walks back into the house and of course his cell's ringing, Nat looking lost as she picks it up, because yeah, Chris didn't look well even before that conversation out by the car.

"What? Oh? Yeah. Sure," she says, handing it over.

"Urban," he says, mouth on autopilot. The box has every single thing he ever left at Chris' house and fuck, there really isn't that much, a few tees, one pair of jeans, a ratty old paperback, some shaving stuff-- This is what Chris was saying about marks. He's just getting it now. It all fits in one box fit for moving out of an office. Not even.

"It's Zach," Quinto says. "What did you want?"

When he looks up at the clock, he sees Zach did call him back with ten minutes to spare-- but-- Chris was only here for five minutes?

"Uh... Chris was just here, but-- early," he says, and thank fuck Nat's got the boys going out of the room despite the positively pissed off look on his oldest one's face.

"Oh, he finally dumped all your things off?" Quinto asks, all nonchalance. "I've been after him to do it for weeks, but it was that happy family photo that finally did it, I think."

"What?" He's not going to think what his voice sounds like.

There's silence at the other end of the line before Quinto sighs, disappointed. "Karl. You really do need to read the papers, you know, not just play video games. He was stupid to get involved with you in the first place, but you ..." His voice trails off before he sighs once again. "I can't decide if you're just a hetero douchebag and user or if you really think you love him. Not that it matters. Just stay out of his way and let him get on with his life."

"What happy family photo?" he asks, but it's too late, because all he's got is dead air.

 

+++

 

September 16, 2010

"Darling," his agent coos, and really, she's such a stereotype. Maybe Chris is right and it's time to move on. All he's gotten the last few scripts have been action movies, not that he minds-- or used to, but-- well. He doesn't know, he's been comfortable, it's just that.... He puts up with the kiss from firm, collagen lips and sits on the couch, takes the coffee her assistant brings in with real thanks because fuck if he's slept any since Thursday-- Chris has changed his fucking cell number, Jesus, and "I'm subletting my place" turns out to be "it's already sublet" and boy, weren't his tenants surprised when Karl banged on their door with a "Jesus, fuck, Chris, open this door!"

Which'd left him red-faced, of course, and sitting back in his car with the realization-- he'd always turned down Chris' offers to go over his parents' or sister's, though they'd all met out for supper a few times, neutral territory, yeah-- he's got no fucking idea where they live, though of course he knew who Chris' dad was, but tracking Chris down, how's he going to start? He hasn't gone out of his way to worm his way into Chris' family's affections, though of course they're lovely-- wonderful people. Why the fuck hadn't he?

"Karl, darling, you're not listening to a word I've been saying," his agent says when he looks up from his coffee.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "What were you saying?"

She smiles and hands over some tabloid-- Variety?-- he can never tell, all these American mags.... There's a picture of him and Nat and the kids-- he's kissing the top of Nat's head while the kids walk on in front and there's some inane caption.

"It was that happy family photo that finally did it, I think." Zach had been so dismissive, not just putting an act on when he'd said he figured Karl for a user. That and needing to read up on the papers-- the same thing as Chris. The two of them-- fucking peas in a pod.

He flips to the front, looks at the date-- it's the date he and Nat agreed to really end things, the day he called Chris and just begged, so far as he was concerned, but that picture, it's a thousand words that don't add up to what Karl said on his message and what's Chris supposed to believe, yeah? What Karl said over the phone, or what it looks like in that photo, even though in truth it's just him being grateful that he and Nat are still friends and it's not going to get ugly?

"That's a lovely photo of you, you couldn't have posed better if I'd set it up all by myself," she says as she hands over some scripts. "Those rumors about the two of you getting divorced are all over the place despite how hard I've been trying to squash them, so this couldn't have been better-timed. I've got three action movies, one with Morgan Freeman that his agent sent over, that one's on top, some independent that only pays scale and looks boring, some play offer I didn't think you'd be interested in from that director at the Geffen, but that was a while ago, the one who directed Chris Pine in that political play," she says, flipping through papers, and her pause as she says Chris' name, oh fuck but that's telling. "—but I told him you don't do theater," she continues on blithely, as if Karl hadn't started out on the stage and TV and didn't have some say in his career. "And some other stuff that's mostly horror but not the A-level stuff genre comic book and action stuff you like to do," she finishes, sniffing, her forehead not moving a whit with the action.

He'd always thought Chris was the one who was passive, but shit... when had he let this botoxed harridan start running his life? When had he just let the days go by, settled back into this rut?

Karl leans over and takes the Variety back, looks long and hard at the photo, then hands it back to her and looks her straight in the eye. "I am getting divorced. And another thing-- from now on, you're to send over or call about each and every offer that comes into your office, whether you like it or not, the same day. And finally-- if you ever sic the paps on me or my family, I'll not only have you fired and blackballed from this town and every town where film's used, I'll use some of the sword and knife skills I've learned in my movies." He leans forward, braces his hands on his knees, and smiles his most charming smile.

"Are we clear? Darling?"

Her face goes blank in clear, botoxed horror-- God forbid she have a freethinking client. He'll have to call John this afternoon and get the name of his agent-- or maybe Vin or Viggo will do him a favor. He scoops up the scripts and the Variety under one arm. "Right. I thought so."

 

+++

 

April 2008

The things I’m going to do to you…

Chris was starting to get pissed at himself. Why didn’t he just hit delete? Why keep re-reading Karl’s text? Why the fuck is this-- every word-- every thought of a new one-- turning him on so fucking much? He’s weighed up the meaning so much now that he’s cowed by lust.

‘Going to do’ – so that means Karl wants to see him again, which means he’s not feeling like shit about what they did and-- to do to you-- and Chris realizes with a surge of blood to his cock that the biting, the holding down wasn't going to be a one off. Chris tries not to think too hard about why he likes this so much, though he knows. “You fucking asshole,” he tells himself, unbuckling his jeans, “pretending like you’re getting carried away by the tide and it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

Chris eases back into the couch, spits in his hand-- his cock’s sore from jerking off. But this will be the last time. It really will.

His phone buzzes and Chris nearly pulls a muscle in his neck leaning over to get it.

What have you got to say for yourself?

Zach. Great.

Ummm…? Chris texts back.

At a loss for words, huh? Zach responds.

Chris sends back a blank text.

Madonna be praised, you’re jerking off, aren’t you? Zach responds.

Chris smiles – Christ, he fucking loves Zach, the way his friend can be good cop/bad cop in the same sentence, chiding him and making him laugh all at once. Chris tucks his now-flaccid cock away, types aaaaaaaaaaa, hits send and sits up on the couch. And he knows the reference is La Ciccone. It always is.

You disgust me, Zach says.

I disgust myself, Chris answers.

Open the fucking door, Christopher, before I call SWAT.

He’s outside? Shit.

Zach pushes past him, his hand to his mouth. “Oh. My. God. It’s like a scene from Seven.” He surveys the room. “Your car’s outside, by the way—“

“Thanks,” Chris says, taking his keys and tossing them on the hall table. He follows Zach into the living room and looks away when Zach raises an eyebrow at him. “So we should go out for coffee?”

“Absolutely – my tetanus shots aren’t up to date,” Zach says. "And please wash your hands."

 

+++

 

“I wish you’d stop calling him The Kiwi Cad. He’s not. This is my fault as much as his—“

“Shut up, Christopher, I have decided.”

They’re sitting on the terrace at The Ivy because Zach insisted he needed to watch someone eat meat, and he claimed and their ‘bromance’ would provide a convenient smoke-screen from the “sordid truth of Christopher Pine’s wretched little ‘tryst’.” Complete with air-quotes.

“How many one night stands have you had, Christopher?”

Chris draws on his cigarette and ignores the huff behind him from someone who’s still eating. It's legal. Whatever. "What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What it means is this – The Rules say: one, say thank you; two get a wash-cloth (although the jury’s out on whether it should be the top, bottom, or more simply — the bed owner); three close the door when you leave. Did you hear me? Close the fucking door.” Chris leans back in his chair, folds his hands above his head and sighs— Zach's on a roll now, he can hear all the italics and punctuation in the pronouncement. “If you bump into each other, which is highly likely given this town’s more incestuous than ancient Rome,” Zach continues, poking at his breakfast, “then you nod politely, talk baseball or business if it would seem rude not to talk at all, say if you’re taking a piss side by side or a similar scenario—“

“The Rules?”

“Yes.” Zach pushes his plate away and runs his thumb across his lip. “The Rules. I made them up – to protect my heart and yours too, it seems.”

“Can I get a copy for my bulletin board?” Chris’ voice is flat, a little whiny and he doesn’t like how he sounds one little bit.

“Just learn it like it's a part.”

“Zach—“

“Yes?”

“What if I want to forget the rules?”

Zach crosses himself. “Oh holy Madonna, protect us from romantic, wannabe homos. Amen.” Zach watches as Chris leans towards him, opening his mouth to ask, then cuts him off– “And don’t. I know what you’re thinking. I can cope with you having a girl-crush on a married man, but you say one word against Madge and I’ll… I’ll ... I won't hold your hair back next time you puke at my place. In fact – ever.” Zach lowers his ‘girlfriend’ finger.

“Homos? Isn’t that…?”

“Pejorative? Yes.”

“Even if I’m part of the community?” Chris smirks. Being with Zach always makes everything better.

“Only community you’re eligible for, baby, is one where the hallways are patrolled at night by big, burly guys with truncheons and the inmates are strapped to the beds. Oh, God. Let me take a moment to enjoy that image, wait—“

Chris waits, smiles, signals for the check.

Zach’s face suddenly turns serious. “Please tell me you used protection?”

Chris snorts. “It didn’t precisely fit in with the whole ‘I’m-out-of-control’ vibe I was going for—“

“That fucking Kiwi Cad…”

“You know the worst thing?” Chris says, a lump in his throat.

Zach raises a finger. “Yes. Several. One – his wife.” He raises another. “two, oh and three, his offspring?” He waggles three fingers under Chris’ nose and then takes a cigarette from his pack. “So, not those things? Okay, tell me—“

“I’ve lost a friend.”

“Oh thank goodness… for one dreadfully tumescent moment, I thought you were going to announce you’d fallen in love with him.” Chris glances at the table top, eyes flicking to Zach’s shoulder, anywhere he can avoid that all-knowing gaze. He can tell that Zach, despite his outward manner, is seriously pissed at Chris, at Karl, and patently worried as fuck about him. “It’s not a problem, Princess,” Zach says, his voice suddenly warm and concerned. He moves his hand along the table-- as if he wants to squeeze Chris’ hand, which he would totally do if they’d been somewhere that wasn’t a fishbowl. “We’ve got a couple of months for you to detox. It’s going to be a brutal program but totally worth the commitment: no texts; no emails; no watching Xena—“

“Can I still jerk off?”

Zach considers this, head canted to the side, before he blinks and nods ever-so-slightly. “Okay. The size of your peen, if you didn’t keep the hormones under control with a little bit of ‘seggatura’, well, you’d snarl up the traffic, or at best put out one of the paps’ eyes, so yeah, in moderation. And positively no—

“—No thinking about the Kiwi Cad, got it,” Chris interjects. He stands up. “Thanks, man– I gotta go, I’ve got a couple of meetings later and listen, you're one friend I really couldn’t fucking stand to lose.”

“Stop it or I’ll cry.” Zach grins, visibly moved under the snark. “And my manly façade will crumble and I’ll never get it back if I’m to become the Next Leading Man de chois.”

 

+++

 

It's a sweaty forty minute walk back to his apartment. Zach had also insisted that a walk and some vitamin D would do him some good, since the state of his apartment indicated that he was trying to out-do Edward Cullen for most time spent indoors. It hadn't been a point Chris had been willing to argue. Chris shuts the door behind him and leans on the wood, drawing his cell out of his pocket.

Tell me more… he shakily types, then hits send. Then he turns his phone off and heads for the shower to begin his day all over again. He'll clean up the mess in the rest of the house when he's out of the shower.

 

+++

 

It’s not the longest jump from a few (maybe quite a few) dirty text messages, to worse. The interminable lag between responses, the time difference between Auckland and LA-- it pitches Chris’ anticipation higher and higher, like waiting for correspondence in a Victorian novel. He knows, although he doesn’t like to think about it too much, that other factors prevent the swift turn-about too. Then, because he's totally kidding himself that he can have some control, Chris might hold off replying, sometimes for several few hours. It’s counter-productive, because then he has yet more reasons to feel guilty, like he's punishing Karl when Karl, at least, thinks he's done nothing wrong.

Really, it's all on Chris' stupid shoulders.

Then, one night he gets a text:

I’m calling tomorrow – 16:30 your time.

Chris can almost hear Zach’s voice – “How presumptive!”

And it is. There’s no possibility, given the ‘tone’ of the text, that Karl may have considered Chris won’t make it. Lately, Chris is permanently busy, but because he's so damned reliable, no one will suspect he’s lying and Chris feigns a cold, reschedules his afternoon and waits. He lets the phone ring four times then extends an arm slowly to pick it up, his heart pounding so hard he daren’t speak in case Karl might detect how nervous he is.

“Chris?”

“How’s your wife?”

“She’s alright– she’s out with the boys for the rest of the morning, they’ve…hey—“ It’s like it’s only just dawned on Karl what Chris is actually asking. “Chris, I thought I’d made it clear, she’s cool – we’re, you know, we have a non-traditional relationship.”

Clueless. Unbelievable.

Chris snorts, shakes his head, fucking hates himself for being a bitch. “So she knows about this? She’s cool with it?” His voice is thick with sarcasm but they’ve needed to talk for weeks and it's the first time they’ve had a chance.

“Chris. I can go if you like—“

“Karl, I like you, man, but I…I wasn’t raised to be this guy…I’m... I am traditional maybe, plus - this cloak and dagger stuff makes me anxious and pissed. Plus it was just one night, you know, there’s an attraction there, true, but…”

“Chris, you’re babbling. Stop.” Chris stops, and not just because Karl doesn't sound pissed. “Listen to me, you’re making me out to be some kind of cad. I don’t do this all the time, despite what you think. I don’t flaunt it, well, because, it’s not a ‘secret’ between me and Nat, but we’re not so fucking hippy that we can stop ourselves getting a bit jealous, you see? We don’t flaunt. You there?”

“Yeah—“ Karl’s voice is hypnotic, so calm, so fucking good-humored, like they're discussing menu choices. “Yeah, I’m listening.” Chris body has sagged on the couch. He's pulled a cushion onto his belly and stares at the fan as it turns, rustles the newspapers on his coffee table.

“Also, Chris, like I said, I can go. " Karl waits a few moments-- when Chris doesn't say anything, he carries on. "This ‘thing’, it was bad timing, I suppose. If this had happened earlier, we’d have had time to, I dunno, sort things out a bit. As it is, we’ve just been getting on with our lives—“ Shit, the way Karl shortens the vowels, it fucking kills Chris. He clears his throat.

“Karl, I…” and there’s so much he wants to say. But this isn’t the time. “It’s cool, seriously, man, I’m just tired, and I’ve got no right to…it’s your life, you know?”

“Chris. That night, it was…”

“I know.” Not just a fucking one-night stand, so fuck Zach. “It’s cool. So, how’s it going? Good to be home?”

“I didn’t call you to swap domestic updates, Chris,” Karl says, and his voice has changed, dropped to almost a whisper and just like that, Chris’ blood heads south even as his heart sinks at the realization that just talking, just friendship isn’t going to work. They’ve shattered one thing and a new, terrible beast has been born and it's going to be miles and months and who the fuck knows what else-- not Chris-- before it's all whatever it's going to be. If anything. Ever.

“Why did you call?” Chris stretches out more, hand wavering over his fly. Not that he wants to. But he does. Fuck.

“I can’t stop thinking about that night—“ It's just Karl's voice, just his voice in his ear, like that last night and Chris' whole world narrows again.

“Yeah?” The word comes out a croak. Chris wedges the phone under his ear and twists one nipple through his tee-shirt-- bites back a groan.

“How about you?”

“— maybe…”

“Maybe?” Karl laughs rich and deep and Chris feels panic, disgust-- he’s so damned easy when it comes to this man. “Well, that’s something, I guess.”

“Maybe occasionally…” Yeah, that's why Chris is so fucking hard now, because it's occasional.

“Tell me…”

“I feel dumb.”

“Way I remember it, you feel like fucking coming home, mate.”

Jesus.

“It was…” Chris fumbles for his cock. He’s just wearing his boxer briefs, but only because it’s hot out and he's trying to conserve the A.C., not because…

“Good, huh?”

“Yeah.” Chris can't-- won't, not at this point-- disguise the need and want in his voice, not when he's fisting his cock like this, imagining they're Karl's long, dark fingers, not his.

“Felt like you’d been waiting?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too. Should have kissed you way back-- that first day, after the shuttle scene, but I wasn’t sure. Mixed signals.”

“I was acting—“ working, that damned Kiwi bastard, but he'd been lost-- lost the whole game already, probably. Chris doesn't know, can't remember what it was like not to want Karl.

“Acting like you weren’t interested?”

"I was kind of interested, I admit. I did find myself looking at your mouth a lot.” Chris remembers the feel, what it was like to have those plump, almost feminine lips, on his cock, his throat, kissing his ass.

“I noticed. Wanna know something?” Karl says.

“Uhuh.”

“I wanked later, thinking of you, soon as I was alone.”

Fuck.

“I didn’t." Somehow it comes out more strongly. Like he's got to make sure Karl knows this. Like it fucking matters at all now. "I held off, wasn’t sure,” Chris says.

“Like you held off in the car, huh? That night?” Exactly. It doesn't matter at all.

“Wanted you—“ Chris protests and instantly he regrets it-- it’s too much, too fucking needy. He remembers all the girls who’ve said things like this, how it’s made him feel trapped, irritable. "I didn't know, and you're married, damnit, what the fuck was I supposed to think, so I tried to be cool but then, when you kissed me I thought—“

“He’s into blokes, I know, but I’m not Chris, not usually. It’s you, I’m into you. I’m hard now thinking about that night, your face, the way you climbed on top of me, the way your fucking mouth feels, shit—“

“Felt good. Felt right.” And he knows Karl is touching himself too, jerking off, thinking about him, about them-- he can just see it.

“Feels good now. I’m imagining you touching me, you holding me, rubbing yourself all over me…” Karl says.

“God, yeah, my hand around your dick, you pushing me up against a wall—“

“Shit, Chris, shit…” Karl's voice has gotten thready all of a sudden and something heady thrills through Chris' chest. Maybe Karl's not going to be calling the shots all the time.

“What? You like that, the thought of fucking me, hearing the…oh, God…noises I make? You like that?” Chris says, pitching his voice deeper-- so close now, jerking himself too fast, too impatient, but...

“Too fucking much," Karl's moaning, "I’m gonna…”

No - not yet. “Wait, wait for me, fuck…wait…” Cock in hand, heart in throat, he makes it an order.

“And you’d wrap your legs around me, I’d lift you up, shove my cock in you, make you fucking…Chris, now, I…”

“I’m gonna come, Karl, can’t stop, come on, come on…”

“Chris…oh, fuck…” And there are no more words, just Karl gasping, moaning for him, because of him. Something dark unfurls in his belly.

“Yeah, yeah, like that, oh Jesus fuck… Jesus.” He bites back Karl's name but it's over, his hand, his belly's covered in cum and Chris keeps up a steady rhythm until he’s so sensitive it hurts. But he’s got to punish himself somehow, even as it feels like nothing else-- nothing better-- just no fucking words to describe it.

 

continued in part 5


	5. Chapter 5

part 5

November 4, 2007

 

He's late. He's never late. But today, well, he is, even though it's not even seven o'clock in the morning, and it's not his first day of filming but close fucking to it and of course, it's his first day meeting Karl Urban and their first scene together. The poor makeup guy, Carlos, tsks at him and asks Judy to come over and help.

"Here-- fan off this pig sweat the captain here built up running in from the car so I can get him made up, baby?" he asks, all the while giving Chris a bitchface that makes even Zach give Chris a look of sympathy from his chair-- not that he can get up and intervene, he's too busy getting The Ears. In capital letters, because they're taking over Zach's life and everything is The Ears this and The Ears that-- at least when it's not The Eyebrows-- or lack of.

Finally, makeup on and apologies given again-- and accepted, this time, because Carlos likes to give everyone a bad time but even he understands that life happens, Chris hustles over to the set as fast as he can. At least he's been told it's okay if he sweats a bit now, since he's supposed to look like the rough end of a bar fight and a night riding around.

"Chris. Thanks for joining us," JJ says, looking pissed as he sat behind the camera.

Fuck. He'd called, talked to Roberto, he'd thought he was covered, and JJ wasn't normally the kind of person to get pissy and shit... but damnit. Fuck that. He was in the movie now after all of those tryouts and damnit, it wasn't like he was a fuck up.

Heart in his throat, he looked the guy straight in the eye. "Sorry, JJ. My nephew was sick and I was at my sister's, helping her out, I'm sure you understand. I did call Roberto to let him know I was on my way in. I'm ready to shoot when you are."

He walked onto the shuttle set, strapped himself into the seat, and smiled at JJ with all the James Tiberius Kirk bullshit charm he could muster. From off to his right, someone burst out laughing, a deep, rich, booming sound, belly laughs of amusement.

"He's got you there, mate. Gonna pull your finger out of your arse and call action?" Karl Urban stepped out of the mock shuttle doorway and tipped two fingers from his forehead in a salute at Chris, eyes twinkling and merry. Chris smiled back, returned the salute, and the both of them turned back to JJ to wait. Chris could feel a bullshit smile on his face that matched the one he could see on Karl's face from the side of his eyes.

"Oh, fuck you both. Fine. Action in ten, nine, eight ..." JJ scowled, but it was clear he'd given up the ghost of his mood.

Chris sat back, wiped the grin at Karl's laughter and quick defense of him from his face-- hell, they hadn't even been introduced yet, what a good guy-- and set his mind to the scene. Meeting the dubious-looking crazy-seeming Doctor McCoy for the very first time, and Kirk has no idea what to expect, though it turns out to be a defining moment for both of the men... Kirk's reaction to McCoy's anxiety and stress in the moment is important, setting an important tone for the rest of their friendship...

 

+++

 

April 2008

“You heard from the Kiwi Cad at all, Christopher?”

“Nah.”

“See, he’s applying The Rules.” Zach taps his nose.

“Must be. Here, you take look—“ Chris hands over the paper, “fucking bitch of a crossword.”

“Everyone should have your troubles, Mr. A-list.”

“Word.” Chris glances at his cell on the table between them and crosses his legs. Or, ‘too bloody right’, as a certain gorgeous Kiwi would say. Not that he'll say those words aloud. Not to Zach-- to anyone, really. Not even his notebooks. Even writing it down doesn't bear doing these days-- seeing it, even transformed into fiction, is too twisty and painful, because how can he examine and define something through vignette and story he can't define in real life?

Zach hands the crossword back with the next word filled in-- eight letters for general discomfort, uneasiness. Malaise. "Too bloody right," and inks the answer in over Zach's pencil-- Zach's never approved of Chris' habit of doing the crossword in indelible ink, but Chris is superstitious about pencils and erasure and the fact is, if you use the eraser too many times, try to correct things instead of just writing over shit and making a mess-- the paper gets torn. In Chris' book, that's even worse because then you've got nothing to work with at all. Not that Zach sees it that way. On some things they'll just never agree.

Zach looks up, eyes narrowed. "What'd you say?"

Chris blinks off thoughts of ink versus pencil. "What?"

Zach stabs his pencil away from his script. "Christopher. Now. What did you just say when you took back the puzzle?"

Chris shrugs-- he doesn't remember. He's got a bit of a headache sitting out in the sun all this time. How does Karl do it, all that fucking tan?

 

+++

 

June 2008

Karl’s in his trackie bottoms, shirtless, taking a tour of the garden at home in his flip-flops, poking at the pool with the net, removing bugs so the kids can take a dip when the day’s warmed up a bit. He pulls his cigarette packet out of his pocket and squats down, gazes into the bottom. He can hear the two of them inside eating breakfast – it’s so good to be home, and, if he’s honest, nice to be around Nat again, nice to know that whatever happens, she’s still his best mate. Now it’s not Skype and texts and stupid time differences, and he’s looking at what he’s got here, he’s starting to think maybe he needs to fight harder for this, get a grip.

Karl looks up at the brilliant blue sky and he's reminded. He hasn’t been entirely honest with Chris, because yeah, he and Nat have an understanding, but he’s not played away all that much. Fact is, neither has she, and it was one thing before the kids came--- plus, Karl didn’t have an opportunity to explain to Chris about the tensions that had built up between him and Nat during filming. Sure, they love each other and always agreed sexual fidelity had nothing to do with that love, but things had changed over the past few years. While it was just the two of them, the occasional liaison with someone else seemed uncomplicated, freeing. It was like they’d reaffirm their commitment each time they went back to each other. They don’t talk much about their liaisons, that helps somehow, but now, as parents, when Nat’s stuck on her own with the boys for weeks – if he sleeps with anyone else, it feels more like abandonment, the way she tells it. Looking 'round their home, how normal it is, so far from LA and glitz, shit, this must have felt like another planet for Nat when they spoke separated by thousands of miles.

He and Nat have talked some, but they haven’t slept together since he’s been back, going to bed at separate times. It’s fucked up, he knows, but it’s like they’re almost shy around each other, starting all over or something. Earlier, she'd come out of the shower and usually she’d have a towel 'round her head and on a warm morning like this, she’d stroll into the bedroom naked. This time, she’d brought her bathrobe in with her. When she'd sat at the end of the bed rubbing lotion into her calves, Karl noticed she’d wrapped her toweling tightly, and he found himself looking away-- like he was intruding, like he had no right.

What the hell’s happened? He should try and fix things, talk to her. She’s intimated that something’s changed, that she’s met someone – maybe it’s serious, maybe it’s not, she says-- but it really fucking hurts. He’s a hypocrite, he knows this-- he fucking hates being that person, especially when there’s Chris who he can’t stop fucking thinking about. And yet-- if Karl wants to finish this thing with him, it would be so easy– it’s going to be months until the publicity tour in the spring. He can stop calling Chris, he can change his number.

He should.

He stands up and kicks at a weed growing at the edge of the pool, decides not to pull it– he just feels too damned tired to get to the chores that have stacked up since he’s been away. Why Nat can't pull the weeds or ask the boys to do something so simple-- why they all have to wait for him to come back...

“Hey, handsome, want a coffee?”

She’s standing at the patio doors, bare-foot in scruffs, not wearing a scrap of make-up. She still looks impossibly lovely. And more than a little bit lonely. He nods, saunters over, wraps an arm around her tiny shoulders and goes back inside.

 

+++

 

“Have the boys met him?” The question's entirely fair-- but he know's what's behind it.   
Karl knocks back the last of his gin and tonic, spits the last fragment of ice back into the glass and sets it down on the island. He turns the sword-fish one last time and licks his fingers. He can’t look at her, hears her sigh as he pulls up a stool, straddles it and watches her hands as she serves the salad. The boys are at a sleep-over and this was supposed to be some quality time for them. He’d found himself dreading it, knowing they’d end talking and that Nat wouldn’t let the opportunity pass. And of course now they've fucked but he feels more apart from her somehow.

“Didn’t seem right. Yet—“

“Yet?”

“Right. I don’t know, it’s too soon—“ He nods, cuts into the fish, raises it to his lips, finally looks at her. “It was never going to be easy – not with how busy we are—“

Nat watches him chew and shrugs, pours out two glasses of wine. “Here,” she says, sliding one towards him, “let’s get ratted!” He laughs and knocks the drink back in two long slugs, smacks his lips and clunks the glass down dramatically. She grins at him.

“Always the bloody clown, aren’t you, Mr. Urban?”

He smiles, though his heart is heavy, extends a hand to hold hers and leans forward to kiss it. “So they say, Mrs. Urban.”

 

+++

 

August 25, 2008

He’s known about this trip for three weeks but has somehow neglected to mention it to Chris-- hopes he won’t be spotted at the airport in his short walk to the waiting car. It’s all he can do not to text Chris before he gets to the Four Seasons but he’s got to stay focused. Tomorrow he’s going to sleep in, have a massage, call the kids then maybe take a stroll down Rodeo Drive – just ‘cause he can, but what he really wants to do is hole up in some bar and get wasted so the day goes by quicker before his audition. He pats his case, wonders if he should look at the script again, so it’ll maybe take while he sleeps. No, fuck it, he knows his lines.

He pulls out his iPod and puts it on shuffle while he takes in the bustle around him as they speed through the city, tail lights twinkling into the distance, vaguely wondering what'll come on next as he dozes in the back seat.

Karl never travels well, can't adjust to the time changes, so he’s not surprised when he wakes at 3am. Damnit-- he just knows he won’t be able to get back to sleep and he rolls across the massive hotel bed onto his belly, wraps his arms around the overstuffed pillow, closes his eyes and listens to the whirr of the A.C. It’s Chris’ birthday tomorrow (today?) -- he probably has something planned so it wouldn’t be cool to pitch up unannounced.

Karl gives himself half an hour to get sleepy again-- when it doesn’t happen, he kicks back the sheet and sits up, picks up the phone by the bed.

“Could you send up a bottle of champagne in a bucket? No, mate, just make sure it’s the good stuff. Leave it outside the door -- and call me a taxi, for half an hour – yeah, sure, Silver Lake. No, don’t charge the cab, I’ll sort that out myself. And I’ll come down to the lobby, don’t bother buzzing. Thanks-- cheers.”

 

+++

 

Fuck, it’s been a while, too long to be honest, since he’s been here. Karl knows better than to linger outside. It’s 5am, still dark but it’s busy enough that he’d better get his arse indoors as soon as possible in case he’s spotted. When the cab pulls away, Karl thinks maybe he should have asked the driver to wait, in case Chris isn’t in-- Karl's heard he’s been hanging out with another woefully unsuitable bird. Shit, he might not even be alone, even if he is home. Still, if Karl had thought about this too much, he wouldn’t have come. No matter, Karl thinks, lifting his hand to the door-bell-- nothing strange about a mate turning up at sparrow’s fart for a coffee. This is LA, after all-- Chris will be smart enough to improvise, act like it makes some kind of sense. The bottle of champers is going to be hard to bloody explain though, isn’t it?   
Bugger.

Karl’s still standing at the door a couple of minutes later. Fuck. He feels like a twat with the ice melting. He’s unshaven, probably still has plane-breath – Chris will think he’s nuts or a stalker or something. He pulls out his phone, realizes this is the only way to get out of any possible awkward situation. He can even pretend he’s still at home if he has to. It rings five times before the sleep-croaky response.

“Hi?”

Chris won’t have looked at the caller-id, he won’t have his eyes in, so Karl says, “It’s me.” He’s got a pit in his stomach you could land a bloody Boeing in.

“Karl? Oh, hi – hold up a second, I just need to…“ yeah, wake up, of course.

“Sorry, it’s late … I just wanted to wish you happy birthday, in case I missed you. Sorry, I should’ve let you know I was calling. Are you alone?” Karl’s whispering and he knows Chris’ll think it’s ‘cause he’s snuck off somewhere in the house.

“Yeah, I am. Hey, it’s real nice to hear from you—“ He sounds more awake now, like he’s smiling, pleased to hear from Karl, maybe?

“I got you something, a pressie, d’ya wanna see it?”

“Sure, how, I mean, where is it?”

Karl grins ear to ear. “It’s outside your door. Too big to squeeze in the mail box. You’d better go check – wouldn’t want someone to nick it.”

There’s silence and Karl hangs up, puts his cell away and picks up the ice-bucket. He wonders whether he should step away from the porch so Chris doesn’t shit himself, but the door’s opening a crack and he can see a sleep-crumpled, heavy-lidded Chris Pine in his boxers squinting at him through his stupid, adorable specs.

“Good morning,” Karl grins, trying not to fidget in embarrassment, glad it’s dark ‘cause he’s flushing. “Room service?”

“Son of a bitch,” Chris says in delight. He grabs the front of Karl’s jacket and pulls him inside, the bucket sloshing cold water over the pair of them. Any doubts he’d had that Chris might not want to see him, might be pissed off that Karl’s just assumed it would be okay-- the way Chris has shoved him up against the door, wrapped one leg around the back of Karl’s calf, the way that pretty mouth is hot and searching against his-- Karl’s wondering how he waited all these hours to get his arse over here, why he bothered with a hotel at all.

“I’ve got an audition—“ Karl manages to get out between frantic kisses, “I thought you wouldn’t mind if I popped over—“ He shifts his foot away from the puddle of melted ice forming on the tile, where he's dropped the bucket.

Chris pulls back to survey Karl’s face. His glasses are wonky, his lips wet with their mingled saliva and he chews on his bottom lip, panting slightly, confused. “Why didn’t you tell me– I could have been out of town, I’m going to my folks’ later… fuck – what if I hadn’t been here…” He sounds almost a little dismayed.

Karl doesn’t know what to say, shit, he doesn’t really know why himself so he slides his hands down Chris’ arms, takes his hands and pulls him so they’re wrapped around his back. “How long have we got?”

“Dunno, a few hours, I was going over for lunch – then out later with friends. You wanna come? I mean, they won’t mind– they’d love to meet you… shit—“

Karl drags his tongue across Chris’ cheek, across the bridge of his nose, rests his forehead against those frowny eyebrows and says, “We’ll play it by ear, okay? Meanwhile, you wanna show me your bed so I can see for myself where you are when I call?”

The frowny eyebrows relax.

“Fuck, yeah.”

 

+++

 

“Turn around, so I can see your face when I fuck you—“ Chris pants into Karl’s ear. Karl’s kneeling up, one hand on the headboard, the other behind him, pulling at Chris' neck so that his mouth's closer, harder against his throat and ears and…fuck, it feels so good. Chris is kneeling up behind him, reaching round to stroke Karl’s cock, his own wedged between them and Karl squirms backwards into it, he wants this so bad. Chris seems more confident, less submissive than last time and Karl’s just going with the flow so he allows himself to be manipulated onto his back, raises his arms above his head, onto the pillows, parts his legs and watches Chris' hands as he rolls on a condom, slicks up his cock and then works the excess around Karl’s hole, fingers firm and not ticklish at all. Karl hisses and raises his arse off the bed in anticipation.

“I’ve been practicing—“ Chris says all nonchalant, eyes fucking intense in the growing light coming in through the window. What’s he saying? That this is just another role he’s been prepping? Karl’s jaw twitches, doesn’t want to ask but the impenetrable look in Chris’ eyes kind of unnerves him. “I thought it might be time to broaden my horizons, you know, gather new experiences.” What the fuck? “See, Karl, I wondered if it was just you, or whether I’m bi-curious, or what, so I had to be sure…” Karl winces, gasps when a long finger breaches him, “wanted to know what it would be like, liking someone so much, but fucking other guys, women, then coming back to that person you like,” and then there's two fingers, “breathe, baby, feels good?”

“Jesus, yeah, like that—“

Chris clasps Karl’s cock, works it in time with his fingers as they edge deeper, open Karl even more and somehow, Karl can’t bring himself to mention he’s never let anyone do this to him before, he’s always been the one calling the shots. He’s temporarily struck dumb by the look of determined intent in Chris’ lust-soaked eyes, well he knows there’s no arguing, no stopping him now and it’s what Karl wants, needs, this redrawing of lines.

“Fuck me, Chris… I want it, just… fuck me—“

Chris grunts and pulls his fingers out slowly. He’s still got a grip on Karl’s cock as he shuffles-- lunges-- closer. “Open yourself for me.” Karl uses his hands to do just that, pulling his cheeks apart, moaning in anticipation when Chris moves Karl’s legs up and back so Karl’s almost doubled over, knees by his face. “Yeah, that’s good, I like that,” Chris practically growls, “fucking nice view.”

Chris licks his lips and guides his cock to Karl’s entrance, closing his eyes tight and Karl can’t take his gaze off Chris’ face-- the way he scrunches his eyes, the way his mouth falls open and he lets out a breath, moaning as his cock forces past that first ring of muscle, making Karl swear and grunt at the burn, the fucking rightness of it. Chris stills, breathes hard, opens his eyes and frowns at Karl, watching his reactions intently. “Okay?”

“Ummm…yes, it’s fine, keep going…fuck, fuck,” Karl huffs, lifting his ass in encouragement as Chris inches in. Chris is gazing down, watching his cock disappearing into Karl and now he’s talking again and Karl wishes he’d shut the fuck up and just concentrate. “It’s been an enlightening experience…ungh…I feel like I’ve gained a whole new perspective…Jesus, Karl, you’re… so. Fucking. Tight.”

Chris doesn’t need to tell him, Karl fucking knows, it’s like he’s being burned open, not much to like yet, other than the look on Chris’ face, the need, despite the bullshit he’s babbling, dumb fucking bugger. So what’s he saying, they’re not exclusive? Fucking obvious as the ring on his finger. Still, he's not sure he likes that one little bit, twists his hands into the sheet.

“Slow down, Chris, seriously, I’m a little—“

Chris pulls out, rolls Karl onto his side and with no warning or nicety, thrusts right back in, pushes one arm under Karl’s neck, pulls him close so his back’s against Chris’ chest, kisses his shoulder, nips roughly, licks a trail along each fragment of sweaty skin he can reach. He hasn’t slowed down, but changing the angle’s helped and then Chris moves Karl’s leg up and back and holy fuck, he’s found that sweet spot and Karl lets out a choke of surprise and then he’s begging, fucking begging for Chris to pound into him. Chris chuckles, cranes to lick at his armpit, moves to Karl’s eager mouth, swallows his moans and gasps and tweaks at his nipple with a free hand. It’s too much-- Karl’s staccato moans fill the small room, each thrust sending twisted, torturing sensations from his prostate to-- everywhere-- and he reaches down to jerk himself off, he’s so close. Maybe Chris can sense this because he starts to mutter encouragement, filthy, half-formed words seeping into Karl’s ear packaged in hot, moist breaths, punctuated by little licks of not-soft-at all tongue. Just as Karl hits the wall he hears Chris demand, “Anyone else make you, hnng, feel like this Karl, tell me, tell me?”

“No, fuck, no.” Karl comes so hard he forgets to breathe.

Chris slows down and Karl flops onto his back, dislodging him. “Sorry, I’ve got cramp in my neck.”

Chris regards him with black eyes and kneels up again, straddles Karl’s thighs, reaches down for Karl’s exhausted cock and continues to pump it despite hoarse, whispered protestations. Chris’ own erection is flush against his belly and Chris guides Karl’s hands to knead at his balls while he jerks himself off. The condom’s gone, just this incredible cock, slick and red and Karl loses track because, Jesus, he’s going to come again and when Chris shoots all over Karl’s chest with a guttural moan, Karl feels a faint ripple of something as he orgasms again in a feeble spasms of ecstatic pain.

Chris slumps onto his side and spoons Karl again, trailing pale, long fingers through their combined semen and sweat on Karl’s chest, drawing patterns idly in the hairs.

“Feel better, now you got that out of your system?” Karl chuckles with what strength he’s got left.

“Well, it is my birthday, Mr. Urban,” Chris says, pressing a gentle kiss into the nape of his neck.

Karl tenses. “Don’t call me that, okay?” He scoots away, rolls over and props himself up on his elbow so he can look at Chris properly.

“Why?” A suspicious look.

“Just ‘cause, okay?” Natalie looking vulnerable over their swordfish cuts through the afterglow.

And Karl leans in quick, to put an end to that thought, licks Chris’ mouth open and inhales him deep, sucking on his tongue, hoping to tire the chatty little bastard out.

“Okay,” Chris says eventually, collapsing onto his back, one leg draped across Karl's stomach, and pulling Karl’s wrist close so he can look at the time. “Can’t fucking see – what time is it?”

“It’s still set at Kiwi time,” Karl says, doesn’t explain that he never changes it until he’s made the first call home, to remind him, “I reckon it’s time for breakfast and a shower.”

“No shower,” Chris says, “It’d be pointless, we’re coming back to bed after we have some eggs. Got it?”

“Yes, Captain!” Karl says, mock-saluting, the same way he always has ever since that first time he met Chris.

“Dork,” Chris says, gnawing at Karl’s lower lip.

Karl watches Chris’ ass as he walks out of the room to get coffee and wonders what the hell just happened. He takes off his watch and rests it on the bedside table face down, gets himself up with a supreme effort, and follows Chris into the kitchen.

 

+++

 

“Well, well, what a pleasant surprise,” Zach says, throwing an arm around Karl, “an unexpected, delightful surprise. Christopher, you’ve been holding out on me. You should have said Karl was coming.”

Karl shoots Chris a look and Chris raises an eyebrow, says, “Behave,” and pulls Zach’s face to his, plants a kiss on his cheek, and wanders off, leaving them all alone. Great.

“Well, it’s a tight schedule, my audition’s tomorrow, then I fly back the day after. I didn’t really know what my agent had in mind until I got here—“ Karl clears his throat, eyes tracking Chris as he moves around the restaurant. He’s booked a room for around twenty of them, said it wouldn’t be a problem squeezing in one more. But there’s no fucking air in the place.

“So, it’s been months, Karl, I’ve kind of missed you – you don’t write, you don’t call—“

“Busy, busy lives, you know—“

“I guess. How are the kids, Karl? They like all the merchandising you brought home for them?”

Karl searches for his fags, catches Chris' eye, mimes smoking and Chris nods to indicate that he'll join him. “Yeah, sure, really the stuff's for me, you know that, right?” Karl forces a smile.

“Of course.” Zach sips his champagne. “And what did you get your wife, Karl, as a souvenir from Los Angeles?”

Bastard. “A few bits, she’s not exactly what you’d call ‘ostentatious’.”

“Easy to please, is that it?”

Right there, Karl decides he’d better go outside before he decks Zach, the supercilious… “I’m going out for a smoke, Zach, catch up with you later.”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure we’re sitting together,” Zach says smoothly. Chris moves past him, champagne in hand, big happy smile on his face and Karl fixes a grin and trails Chris, aware of Zach’s laser gaze on his back

continued in part 6


	6. Chapter 6

part 6

 

October 15, 2010

Chris flops onto his hotel bed, letting out a long sigh. The smell of makeup is still strong in his nose, but he's too tired to go take a shower after the long day of shooting-- fucking horseback riding and card games-- whist, jesus-- and walks through manicured gardens and then the bus rides out and back to the site because it's la-di-dah historical property and they can't have trailers on site, everything's got to be transported off at the end of the day. All this time in Paris and he's barely had time to enjoy it, except for a few walks and dinners with Anne on the few days they've had off together.

At least there's that bright spot, he gets to work with her again-- they get to mope and be heartbroken together in the most romantic city in the damned world. Not that the paps know jack shit about it. They're taking photos of them every time they head out for a coffee or drink or a cig and it's all "L'amour jeune" this and "Prince et Princesse Part Deux Part Deux" because the paps aren't clever no matter what country they're in. And sure, in some of the photos they're laughing, and in some Anne's holding onto his arm as they walk, leaning into him in a way that looks lover-ly and all of that shit-- but it's fucking Paris and she would wear Louboutins out for a croissant and coffee three blocks away instead of the flats most Parisiennes wear. He's lucky he doesn't have to carry her home half the time, those things are so high. Sure-- they make her legs and ass look great, objectively-- because his dick's gone south along with his heart and his sense-- but they already got that shit out of their system they first time they worked together and frankly, between him and Karl (not that he's told Anne that's who he's moping over) and Anne and Raffaelo still-- although he always thought the guy was a douchebag.

Ah-- who the hell is he to be any judge of who people love?

There's a knock on his adjoining suite door, and Anne walks through in her slip, barefoot and hair loose. "Hey, Princess," she says, taking a drag on her cigarette and climbing up onto the bed. Chris can just see up her slip and she's got on matching panties.

"Nice black lace, your highness" he says. "Very classy."

From where he's lying, upside down, head tipped, her smile is edged and unhappy.

"Too bad you're the only one around to give me a compliment."

He rolls over and rubs a hand up one leg. "Seducing Mr. Butler isn't going so well?"

She shakes her head, rueful. "Maybe we should have a big fight on set or something so I can let him comfort me. That's the problem with being friends and romantic co-stars. Everyone thinks we're fucking."

Chris snorts. "You can even slap me and call me a cad if you like. Just don't push me into a fountain this time."

Anne throws her head back, belly-laughing, all sadness gone, and Jesus-- it'd be so uncomplicated. She's a friend, and she's already made him the offer. "What do you say?" she'd said, that first day, seeing right through the smiling pretense of being happy to be there and glad to help out, all that bullshit. "Fuck our way to forgetfulness and have a little fun while we're at it?"

He'd wanted to and yet ... no. It hadn't felt right-- like he was cheating on Karl-- or the idea of him-- something that was completely, absurdly preposterous. And yet. Still. He rolls up a bit more and places a chaste kiss on her smooth, pale knee. It's a good contrast, Anne. She's a good contrast, this whole movie, this whole change of scene.

Her look down at him shifts from amused, though she doesn't say anything, just arranges herself so she's lying next to him, her slip all akimbo and her fancy panties all shifted wrong on her small, pert little ass. "My offer still stands, you know, and we'd be friends when we're over. You know we would."

Chris nods. They would. He's being stupid, being faithful to someone who never was faithful to him in the first place-- when faith was never an issue at all. Anne leans in and looks at him in that way that she has-- they don't talk all the time, sometimes not for months, and then they meet up and it's like he and Zach, their friendship, except with less catcalling, more books and less drinking, less calling each other bitch, that and the fact that they've slept together which he and Zach, they won't ever-- but still, she does get him-- and she kisses him and it's nice-- and wanted, warm and welcome and sweet and just ... fuck.

He's been so tired and lonely. So's she. And just-- why is he fighting?

He makes sure not to tear the slip or the panties before he tosses them over the side of the bed, because if he's learned nothing else, he's learned to be careful.

 

+++

 

October 18, 2010

It burns. He burns. He's never given much credit to cliches before, but he actually knows what it means when people say "I saw red" now. They're just the right words.

He's reading Variety-- he's learned at least that much-- there's a series of photos of Chris and Anne Hathaway on some street in Paris and the two of them-- they're laughing and happy and Anne's got her arm wrapped around Chris' and she's leaning into him like he's her fucking pillar or something and they're both in period costume for this movie Chris took-- just to get away from Karl, Jesus, he did that, he actually drove someone out of the country whether he meant to or not-- and then the last photo, it's clearly an unscripted moment, a candid, something between two people, not actors, and Anne's leaning up for a kiss and Chris is leaning down and it's cute and tender and sweet as all fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Karl wants to kill something. Someone. Anything. Well, almost anything. Not really Anne. Chris, maybe, for being so fucking melodramatic. Maybe not, though. Because she's not some inappropriate bird, some starfucker Sheila or blow-snorting D-lister like Chris used to fuck-- or pretend to when they were together and Chris was just hanging out with these different girls who were friends. But Anne-- she's an old friend of Chris', a real actress, someone respected in town and someone he knows Chris really likes, even as Karl's never met her. He'd had a chance once, she'd been at a party Chris was going to after this had all started, and Chris had asked him to come-- it wouldn't have been out of place, either, since Simon was going to be there, but Karl had begged off, for whatever dumb reason. He can't even remember why now.

And now Chris is kissing her out in public and he looks happy and it's all Karl's fault. Fuck.

Before he knows what he's doing, he picks up his iPhone and starts looking for flight times to Paris.

 

+++

 

October 22, 2010

He's not even on the plane yet and already the dry air of the airport is drying him up, sucking him soulless, making him feel shitty and husked. Or maybe he's just finally feeling like the melodramatic romantic twat that he should feel like, now that it's finally caught up with him, how fucked up things have gotten with Chris. It's too early in the morning to drink, and the fucking Americans and their TSA shit, he's there with two hours to kill and nothing to do except wander around like a ghost in the LAX mall.

He finally settles on the overlarge bookshop, the one that's all empty except for the cafe, people munching biscotti and scones and drinking stupid sugary six-thousand calorie frappu-what-the-fuckevers like Chris used to-- fuck. Fuck.

He hits the magazine stand and in a complete fit of masochism picks up all the English tabloids as well as the French, the ones full of European movie press news, including Chris' movie, which is turning out to be quite the epic costume-arama, not to mention Chris' stepping in at the last minute for Jude Fucking Law, Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker. Of course, there are tons of pictures of Anne and Chris being a beautiful couple. He can wank off in the airplane john and curse himself later. He pays for them and stuffs them in the front of his carryon bag, then heads back into the rest of the shop because he's still got at least an hour to kill. He wanders the aisles, though bookshops just aren't his gig-- always Chris', and he used to bitch when Chris would stop at the little used ones in his neighborhood that smelled like dust and faint cat piss. This one just smells like diesel from planes-- canned muzak fills the air, fucking George Michael and Boy George and Duran Duran. He's standing in Classics, wondering what in the fuck he's doing when a spine catches his eye.

You read this?

Nah, Nat made me watch the TV series, she likes that costume stuff. It was alright, yeah, but not really my cup of tea.

Chris had read him some bit then, back at JJ's, tried to explain-- something about adultery and not knowing what you wanted from life, never knowing, something about being too fucking romantic and not realistic or some shit like that, being too stupid to open your eyes to what was in front of you and enjoying small pleasures-- but at the time all Karl had had eyes for-- all he had ears for-- fuck, all he'd had cock for was the way Chris had looked, had sounded, so fucking seductive and smart and Karl had just wanted to fuck Chris until he begged Karl for more. And he had, until Karl'd not paid attention and pissed it away. He hadn't thought, hadn't listened, though some part of him had clearly filed it away, if only for it to come filtering back fucking now.

Madame Bovary, hunh? He grabs the book off the shelf, grunts at the price, and heads off to the cashier.

 

+++

 

October 22, 2010

The waiter brings over a fresh bowl of raspberries ringing what looks like creme fraiche, after clearing their entrees. "We didn't," Chris protests in French, though his is far worse than Anne's. Whatever, it's a chauvinist country, and if the guy speaks a whit they expect him to order. Anne thinks it's funny.

"Pour les amantes," the waiter replies, with a wink that isn't a leer because it's France and they make even innuendo seem classy. Anne throws her head back and laughs, claps in delight, reaches forward and drags one through the cream with her fingers, as clearly she's meant to. There's got to be some pap-stalker somewhere, which makes the back of Chris' neck crawl, but whatever-- they're working, they're here to put on a show, and Anne leans over to say "it's free raspberries, Chris, where are you going to get these in October? They're absolutely delicious..."

The berry has left a small burst of red on her lip. As he's meant to-- and wants to-- he leans in and kisses it off, but not for too long. Around them, there are small sighs, because Parisians-- they're all aesthetes and they like the pretty. They do think that he and Anne are awfully pretty, it seems.

He picks up a berry, dips it in the creme fraiche, closes his eyes and gives it a taste. It is really delicious. He smiles at Anne, and she grabs his hand on the table before she picks up another and offers it to him.

"You are a camera whore," he says under his breath, smiling at her the whole time.

"You're too camera-shy," she smiles, her response likewise sotto voce. "Open up, princess, it's called promoting a movie, and aren't we having fun, anyway? Get over yourself."

She's right. He smiles, and does. The second raspberry is just as delicious, and she snickers when he smears the third berry on her cheek on purpose, just so he can kiss it clean. On the way back to the hotel, he orders a bucket of champagne and another order of berries and cream to be sent up to the room-- Anne just snickers more.

 

++++

 

October 23, 2010

It's oh-dark-fucking thirty a.m. when he arrives, and of course Charles De Gaulle's on fucking strike, so getting a taxi is a damned nightmare-- at least until he finds a porter who's a fan and therefore willing to forget the whole union thing.

He checks into the hotel Chris’—and Anne’s staying at, which is more than a bit creepy, he knows, but in for a penny, in for a pound— then tries to decide how to approach this whole thing. Really sits down and thinks, too—orders room service, and starts with re-reading parts of the books he marked up during the flight, parts he thinks that Chris read him, parts that struck him a lot— then flips miserably all over again through the pap mags with the shots of who ought to be his boyfriend, though they've never called themselves that, Karl wasn't big into names and Chris-- he went along with that until, well, he didn't. The photos of Chris and Chris' new lover—and friend, because it’s clear they are that, the way they’re just walking and laughing together in some of the shots, enjoying each other’s company in the way that people who just really know each other backwards and forwards can do, and that makes him feel even worse.

That’s what he rues now—maybe even the most-- that he’s had time to think about it, how he and Chris had become less and less friends and more and more—just all fucked around and not right toward the end despite all the good moments. And fuck but he misses him, he realises now. He loves Chris—loves him as intensely as Hunter and Indy and needs him and just fuck—he loves him.

He's missed laughing with him, joking around about shit, just having a beer or going out for a drive or a run or making fun of the fake tits or fake tans on people because despite all the glitz all around them and Chris’ weird neurosis some of the time—he’s a real guy, a real friend, not fake or self-conscious in a Hollywood way like even a good guy like John could be sometimes, and he’d let all that slide in trying to—fuck if he knows.

He's gotten over worrying what people would think if he got divorced from his wife, when now it’s just anticlimax and hey— nobody’s blinking so far, just expressing their “got to be hard living apart all that time” sympathy whether or not it’s sincere? They could have still kept shit with him and Chris on the down low, none of their friends were inclined to gossip, people could be tight-lipped in town when they wanted—and now it’s all gone, not friends, not lovers, nothing at all, and all because he'd come off as wanting his cake and trying to eat it all too, when really-- he hadn't known what he'd wanted, except that it was Chris.

Talk about Nat being right about needing a wife, needing someone to take care of him. He can’t get his head out of his arse long enough to pay attention to the people he goddamn knows that he loves, for fuck’s sake, long enough to see that it’s all just falling apart and he’s just letting it, but goddamn if he’s not going to fight this time.

He’s sorry, Anne Hathaway might be perfectly lovely, and he knows Chris considers her a good friend— but she’d better get the fuck out of Karl’s way. He’s got groveling to do and damned if he’s going to let some gorgeous princess brunette Chris might be shagging be any obstacle.

Breakfast done, he grabs a shower and then hits the street. He’s got some shopping to do if he’s going to apologize properly, show Chris he means it. He’s got a long day ahead, and who knows when Chris will be back from the set—but that’s all okay. It gives him time to get everything worked out, make everything smooth, make sure this works.

continued in part 7


	7. Chapter 7

part 7

.

 

He’s called in lots of favors—not every one that he has, but fortunately one of the PA’s on Chris’ movie is someone he knows from Rings, thank god for IMDB Pro, and she’s called to let him know they’re done for the day. And the star-struck girl at the desk, well, she loves “Le Trek,” and of course she’d love to help him surprise his friend, why wouldn’t “Le Capitain” be happy to see “Le Docteur,” or however she says it, so she lets him into Chris’ room without any trouble at all, he with his few bags of things and his knapsack and the room service he calls to arrive not long before Chris does.

It’s late—after nine, local time, and Karl is damned tired, but he’s got to do this tonight, it’s like this compulsion riding his shoulders, has ever since Chris showed up on his doorstep with that box and wouldn’t use his keys, refused to let himself into Karl’s life anymore and acted like he was just a damned guest, godfuckingdamnit. Before that, though, when Chris walked out of his own party because—well, because Karl had done what he’d always done, gone off to take a call and instead of not minding like usual, Chris had and why shouldn’t he? Except back then all he’d felt was this knot of confusion because he hadn’t understood what all the fuss was about, and hurt because Chris hadn’t even tried to explain, just been so fucking cryptic, him and his “permanent marks.”

Of course, now he kind of got what he meant, because damned if there wasn’t this aching spot in his chest, Chris-shaped if he was going to be sappy and shit. Which he is going to be—as soon as Chris gets back.

Which had better be soon. Karl doesn’t like looking at the evidence of the fact that—well, he and Anne clearly come and go a lot between their two rooms, because there are books Chris wouldn’t read but a girl might, that and a girl’s ratty sweater—not unlike the ones of Chris’ he’s made so much fun of and now he regrets that even more. It makes him feel sick to his stomach and clearly Anne’s a sister in spirit if she wears awful little cardigans too-- and pink Chuck Taylors, a baby-blue trenchcoat, hair barrettes and when he peeks in the bathroom, scented hand lotion and shit, she might as well live here. Jesus, maybe Chris isn’t going to want to leave her.

He’s mulling himself into a right fucked up state—that and the food cooling off—when Chris finally enters the suite, Anne right behind him.

“Dunno, Annie, I’m pretty beat,” he says, and stops dead. Staring at Karl.

“Hey,” Karl musters. Anne, meanwhile, walks right into his back.

“Fuck, princess, why did you, oh…” she says, looking around, clearly confused. Then she smiles and strides forward, extending her hand. “Dr. McCoy, I presume? Doesn’t have the same ring as Livingston, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.”

Karl shakes her hand. She’s taller than she looks, has a nice smile. He wants to like her. Does like her—instant friendliness, just like Chris was. Is. Except at the moment.

“Miss Hathaway, so nice to make your acquaintance. I’m sorry I hadn’t before, I always heard great things about you,” he says, standing up from the desk, “just, uh … always was kind of awkward and lame about meeting Chris’ friends, I don’t really know why except I... I was worried I'd feel too old or something...it's stupid really."

She smiles up at him and says “But now you’re in Paris and surprising Chris! That’s so nice!” then turns to Chris and smiles at him. “And look, he even ordered you bad hotel pizza and your favorite beer! What a good guy!”

Chris shuts the door—even puts on a smile, the least convincing one Karl’s ever seen, his body all stiff, and says “Yeah—I’m just surprised, I guess, Karl’s wife and kids were in town last time I saw him.”

Well, that would be his cue. Karl smiles—“Nat and the kids are done with her shoot—she took them home after we talked a lawyer and agreed we’d get the divorce papers going.”

Anne’s face suddenly falls—like a muppet, but sleeker somehow. “Oh no, I’m so sorry! I’ll leave you guys alone so you can talk…” and starts to make her escape.

Karl starts to say she doesn’t have to leave right away, because really, she doesn’t, he hadn’t intended to start the conversation this way (and somehow, he hadn’t planned on her coming into the room with Chris, either, but why wouldn’t she, right?) but she smiles and says it’s okay even as Chris accepts her kiss on the cheek as she lets herself into her suite through the adjoining room door with only one more curious look and a “Nice to meet you, hope to talk with you more later.”

Oddly enough, Karl does too—he thinks he says so aloud—at least he hopes so. He’s got to make more of an effort in that direction-- the saying what he's thinking aloud. It’s the one and only thing he’s decided in all of this mess, since clearly-- if Chris had known how Karl'd felt ... feels...

The door shuts with a snick and Karl stands there, his hands at his sides, waiting for Chris to say something. It's not what he expected when Chris finally speaks.

“They fed us on set. Dinner. I mean. So. Um. I’m not really hungry, I’m sorry. But if you haven’t eaten, you should have some of that pizza, though I’ve got to warn you, it’s not very good.”

Karl’s stomach is roiling so badly he couldn’t eat if he tried. Really, he got the pizza and beers because it was something they always ate and it was something Chris always took care of, so it was a gesture—an indication that Karl wanted to be the one to try to pay attention this time. A way to start fresh.

All the while, Chris is standing there like Karl’s some dog that’s going to bite—he hasn’t even taken his coat off, his shoes, though California boy that he is, it was always the first thing he did when he came in the house.

Karl’s house—they never did spend that much time at Chris’ apartment. Ah. Fuck.

“If you don’t want it,” Karl says, fumbles the napkins on the tray next to the plates—does the George V room service cart come equipped with foil? Room fridges?—“I can wrap it up? Put it away? Maybe it’s better as breakfast?”

At this offer, Chris startles, then laughs. He laughs and can’t stop, hysterical whooping, still standing where he is, though now he’s bent over, and again—not what Karl expected, so he just stands there until Chris is done, feeling something cold and creepy curl round his spine.

Finally though, Chris straightens, seems to gather himself, and without looking at Karl, he takes off his coat, kicks his black Chucks in the corner, looks round the room. His eyes linger a bit on Anne’s things, a little smile like—like he’s happy they’re there while Karl is, like they're moral support, all her little things that she left lying around. They'd fill at least two suitcases. Fuck.

“You came to Paris to buy me pizza and beer and tell me you got a divorce,” he says, leaning on the back of the sofa, hands braced on either side of his tight denim-clad hips— topped by the usual white v-neck tee under another grey sweater. His uniform, the one Karl always made fun of. “I saw already. It was all over the papers for a day or two, Karl. I take it she’s not going to be difficult about the boys.” It’s only then as he says this composed little sentence that Karl sees Chris’ hands are white-knuckled, despite the even tone in his voice. And he doesn’t use anyone else's name except Karl’s, which comes out flat. Doesn't say Nat's, doesn't name Hunter or Indy-- like he's given up rights when he used to grin at the kids on the Skype, read them bedtime stories mid-day in L.A. just because they'd asked, used to tussle with his oldest and chase the other one round, playing monster and being obliging as all-fuck with this gleeful never-thought-I'd-do-this-isn't-this-fun look on his face that always made Karl forget to be grumpy because he had to take out the trash or pick up more groceries or all the other shit he had to do because yeah-- he was a grownup. Or thought that he was.

"I came here," Karl says, forcing himself out of the chair on weak knees-- propelling himself over to the sofa, grabbing Chris at the waist of his jeans, growling into his face, except it also sounds kind of like a whimper as well, and he doesn't know how that's possible and fuck if it matters right now, "because I need you, goddamnit, whether or not I'm getting divorced-- if I wanted to just clue you in on the news, I'd send a damn telegram."

Chris looks tired-- weary as all fuck, the lines at the sides of his eyes a bit dried-out like he hasn't been sleeping that well-- and his cheeks have only that day's worth of stubble. It's a period film, no doubt he's got to shave every day.

Chris doesn't twitch as he responds, cool as anything. "I'd rather you sent the telegram, frankly."

"I suppose I deserve that, but damnit, Chris, listen," Karl says, and damn but he's dizzy with the smell of whatever French cigarettes Chris is smoking these days, not his usual ones, but it's still the same shampoo and soap that he's always used and no-- it's not appropriate at all but it makes his mouth water, his cock so fucking hard, "really, I've been thinking since well before you came over that day, and that photo you saw was all wrong, Nat and I had already agreed we were going to do it, she was actually apologizing to me for mucking it up--us-- you and me-- 'cause I'd told her, see-- when they snapped that photo, not that I expect you to believe it or anything, really. But it is true, it was already basically over by then, we just hadn't"

It's a surprise to find himself shoved onto his ass. It's not like Chris isn't a strong person-- although maybe Karl's never really thought about it before until now-- and Chris' hands are balled not like he's ready to punch Karl but like he's really trying hard not to, and the jolt that's gone up Karl's spine doesn't seem like it's all from the physical shock of being dumped on the floor. Chris, standing over him in his white tee, jeans, stupid white socks peeking out of the ends of his jeans-- he's already made his voice go all cold again.

"I never asked you to leave her. I never asked you to get a divorce. Don't you come in here and start giving me a list of excuses, Karl, goddamnit-- I don't-- I don't fucking want them, I don't need them, I just. Fuck. No. I don't want to hear it. I said I was done because I meant it Karl-- done. Over. Finished."

"You think I don't know what done means? Think I need a fucking thesaurus?" It's out of his mouth before he can stop it, and there's a flash in Chris' eyes before-- he muffles it down, stifles it somehow-- and this, this is their fucking problem.

Karl lunges up-- somehow-- and then he's in Chris' face again but he stops himself from touching Chris even though it's the toughest thing he's ever done in his life.

"See, Chris, I know you never asked. You never fucking asked for a thing, but you never fucking told me a goddamned thing, either. And yeah, I'm a thick jerk for not getting my head out of my arse, but it takes two to tango, mate, and you didn't do your goddamned part--"

Chris slowly smiles-- smirks even-- and says "Well, you've got one part of that right, you are a thick jerk, Karl," and turns and walks to the window, as if he finds this whole thing amusing, a farce even.

Who the fuck knows why it sets Karl off-- but it does, the straight line of Chris' back and set of his shoulders, fuck, the curve of his ass in his jeans and just—

"Don't fucking turn your back on me when I'm talking to you, damnit," he says, grabbing Chris by the shoulders and shoving him into the bay, into the glass until Chris' head thunks and Karl's fingers curl against the cold panes, but that's not important, not like how he's got to make Chris stop walking away, not like after his party, like that day at Karl's house, got make him stop deciding shit in his head and stop making pronouncements that have no fucking connection to what he really feels, to what's really happened between them-- not all the good times they had and the laughs and the ...

"There were some good times, Karl," Chris answers, and he's not being unkind, fuck, had Karl said that stuff aloud, but Chris is still talking-- "but we both know we ... it was fucked up. We were just fucking, not friends, not anymore. And I can't... " He blinks-- goes silent for a moment or two, and then-- soldiers on. "And-- look. I'm sorry you got a divorce, I know it'll be rough, but ... if she's not going to let it get ugly that's good and you'll see the kids as much as ever you did." He blinks for a moment before adding "I bet Viggo would have some words of wisdom."

He doesn't offer an appeasing smile, doesn't touch or shove Karl away at all despite-- fuck, ridiculous stupid aggression, what the hell is he doing?-- and Jesus-- Viggo? Yeah. Of course he'd have lots of good thoughts on the subject. He'd have lots of sensible shit to say about Chris, too-- not that Karl'd ever really copped on to what all was going on between them, though he was sure Viggo knew. The man was fucking brilliant, and he had met Chris more than a handful of times after all. And Chris was right to suggest it, and fuck, the look on his face is less --

"Shut up. I didn't come here because I felt mixed up about my fucking divorce, Chris," is all he manages to get out of his mouth before the smell of Chris, the warmth of his deltoids and shoulderblades under Karl's fingers, the sheer mesmerizing nearness of him just does him in and he can't fucking stop himself as he mashes his lips over Chris', plunges his tongue over Chris' teeth and tongue despite his protesting "mmmmphhh" and shoving hands on Karl's chest and hip, pulls him in closer because no-- fuck-- he's not letting go.

It's an angry kiss-- not so much because he's angry at Chris as because he's just angry in general-- fucking pissed off at them both, how they both let it come to this point, and Chris bites at his lips, his tongue, but he's not pushing Karl away any more, he's pulling him closer and they've slid down the window, rutting against each other at an awkward angle between the wall and the floor and Chris' "asshole," and "cocksucker" and "jackass" and whatever other names he's calling Karl falling on deaf ears because fuck if Karl cares so long as Chris is kissing him back. Karl slides down Chris' body-- tugs off that white tee, tosses his own as Chris arches and wiggles out of his jeans and Karl-- way less temptingly, he supposes, but who fucking cares when Chris' mouth is all red and puffy like that?-- goes to town on Chris' cock, the rug burning patches onto his knees and the heel of one hand as he braces himself over Chris' body.

"Fuck, Karl, f-ffuck," Chris chokes as Karl deep throats him, sucking hard as he fondles Chris' balls, all desperation and no finesse at all whatsoever. His smell-- musky and spicy and fuck-- fuck, Karl's going to-- if Chris doesn't-- and then Chris sputters and that's all the warning Karl gets before his cock twitches once and he cums. Karl swallows it all, manages not to go off but it's close and when he looks up Chris looks wrecked, his longer hair all plastered to his forehead. He manages somehow to find his feet-- find his bag-- find the lube that he brought, and Chris says, voice shot but insistent-- "Condoms are in the top drawer of the desk."

He stuffs down the pang that this brings-- they'd never, the whole time that they'd ... but there's Anne and it's a fair enough question, and if they've been using them, then.... He gets the condom out of the desk, tears off the wrapper, turns to find Chris standing right behind him. He doesn't look sorry for asking, but he does lick a line down Karl's jaw, suck on his adam's apple, nip over Karl's sternum, suck on one nipple in a way that's so fucking distracting even as it's a reward, the way he's jacking Karl's cock, those hands of his moving back to cup at Karl's balls, tugging at one, then the other as Karl's trying to roll on the condom and fuck, he's out of practice at this-- but Chris just chuckles a bit and takes over, finishing the task in one efficient motion.

Karl can't wait any longer than that, and he's on Chris like-- well, comparisons and similies and that kind of stuff are Chris' thing. Karl just knows he's better at words when he backs them up with actions and no matter what Chris might have said about "just fucking," it was never "just" anything. He takes his time working Chris open, and if he's not mumbling endearments or curses but instead saying stuff like he's sorry or he just wants Chris back or he needs him, then fuck, well, it's true, and when he slides-- yeah-- home into Chris and he says so and Chris just makes this noise, his hands on Karl push-pulling but Karl, Karl pulls out and drives in because fuck, Jesus, yes-- and Chris grunts and thrusts up and scrabbles blunt nails on Karl's back, bites Karl's shoulder, licks and sucks at it too, doesn't say much.

Every time Karl pulls out and falls home he tries to say sorry-- tries to tell Chris that he loves him, that he's missed him, kiss him and touch him everywhere that he can and fuck-- tries to make it last-- and he does-- they do for a bit because Chris-- Chris is touching him back, pinching and skating those fucking hands of his all over Karl's body, licking and rubbing himself against Karl's skin. At one point he flips Karl onto his back so he can lick at Karl's balls, finger fucks Karl's asshole, teasing Karl with this dead-serious look on his face before he lowers himself onto Karl's cock again, all concentration and frown lines until Karl is sheathed inside him again. He jolts up once hard at just the right angle and those frownlines disappear from Chris' face as his bottom lip falls open a bit, his eyes still screwed shut, so Karl does it again, and Chris-- this time he just falls forward a bit and Karl grabs him hard at the waist and Karl grabs him, pulls him down, pulls Chris toward him until they're chest to chest, Chris' cock trapped between them as he pistons up into the hips that he's gripping. He feels Chris spurt between them even as he clenches hard around Karl's cock, his teeth sinking into Karl's shoulder, his grunt muffled by the bite, and Karl-- it's a cascade of white, not like a snowstorm or a blizzard but maybe like going to warp or getting struck by lightning and he can't hear himself and what he's saying to Chris. He just hopes it's something-- helpful.

Afterward, he's vaguely aware of Chris getting out of the bed and returning, a washcloth and dry towel cleaning him up.

"Hey," he finally croaks. Jesus-- talk about little deaths. Chris looks pretty wrung out himself, patting himself down with a second handtowel. "I would've done that."

Something in Chris' face breaks for a second or two, and Karl rolls over, takes the towels out of his hands, looks for a second before determining that the wastebasket next to the bed is empty and that'll do for the moment.

"You would?" Chris asks, and there's more going on here than Karl gets, clearly, but his answer-- it matters. In any event, he means it.

"Yeah," Karl says, then braces himself on his arms long enough to kiss Chris' shoulder-- it's what's within reach. "I would."

Chris nods, deciding something-- then turns to kiss Karl and crawl back into bed. He huffs a small laugh when Karl grumbles and grunts as he untangles the covers from the mess at the end of the bed. When Karl curls on his side to loop his arm over Chris' waist-- there's a pause, indelible there in the dark, and then Chris' hand-- clammy and a little bit shaky-- drops over Karl's forearm.

Karl's sigh is loud in the dark. Fuck if he cares.

 

+++

When Chris first wakes, he thinks maybe he's finally lost his stupid heartbroken mind because Karl's in bed with him-- and then he remembers last night. Karl and the pizza-- and Annie-- oh, fuck, she'd probably heard the fight and the sex, she was never going to let him live this one down-- and Karl being so tongue-tied and angry and fucking pathetic and Chris-- he'd tried to be cool about the whole thing but Karl, here-- well, he might as well have never left, that's how fucking well it seemed to have worked, it's like no time had passed whatsofuckingever, he's so fucking raw, bleeding as soon as he sees Karl, hemorrhaging, really.

At the same time, though-- Karl'd looked fucking miserable, really-- and yeah-- cliched, but it took two to tango, even when there were three, and he hated to see Karl look so upset, it was why he'd suggested maybe Karl talk to Viggo. He knew how Karl got all hermit-like when he was upset about shit, he turned into a hibernating bear, worse than Chris in his way, and Viggo would have good suggestions about keeping in touch with the kids and things civil with ... Nat. He just had wanted Karl gone before he started crying or puking or grabbed Karl and kissed him or something because-- it was too much, being faced with how fucking branded he still felt, and stupid Karl touching him.

Of course he'd fucking shoved him, which had been a mistake-- touching Karl in any damned way was a mistake, any kind of escalation at all. When Karl kissed him-- yeah, he'd bitten him, too, but it wasn't really retaliation-- just temporary marking, since Karl would have go back to L.A. while Chris finished the film, there was no way he could stay and the marks when they fucked, no matter what Karl might think, no matter what he might say in the middle of this because they were good in bed, it was everywhere else they fell apart-- well, they weren't permanent, but they were something and Chris?

He was a petty enough sonofabitch in the middle of everything else that last night he'd wanted to leave them so when Karl realized this morning he'd made a mistake, at least he wouldn't be able to forget Chris all that quickly. Although-- between the pizza-- something Chris always used to took care of-- and the stupid washcloths, damn Zach and his Rules with a capital R-- maybe Karl meant it?

It's what he wants to believe. What he'd told himself he'd allow until the cold light of morning.

"Stop thinking, Chris. I can hear you." The vowels are all drawn-out and hissy, the same as ever they were, and Karl's voice, gruff and quiet in the dim grey, is both worried and a little amused.

"Thought you liked my brain."

"I do," is Karl's answer, as he props himself up on one arm. His morning breath is as funky as ever, but his bed-head's just as-- fuck-- and Chris can't help himself, really, and Karl doesn't even bother resisting-- nor does he insist on a condom, though Chris was just being a bitch, he's sure Karl's clean, just like he knows he and Anne are. But it's not until they've collapsed on the bed, Chris sprawled over Karl's back, not even disengaged yet, and Karl panting, eyes closed and a faint smile on his face, his arm curled back to clasp at Chris' head, that Karl says "I just don't like it at 4:30 a.m."

"Fair enough," Chris chuckles into Karl's shoulder, and they fall asleep just like that, Karl's thumb doing circling things on the side of Chris' arm.

 

+++

 

His phone's buzzing.

His phone's buzzing and where the hell is it?

He stumbles out of bed-- trips on something, then trips on something else, curses, flicks on the light on the wall, finds his phone, picks it up, hauls it into the bathroom, closes the door.

It's the PA from the set with a question for tomorrow-- and thank fuck he has today off-- and there's a smile in her voice at waking him up, like she thinks maybe he's had a late night out or something and she's got something to tease him about. He knows she worked on Rings...

"Andi?"

"Yes?"

"Did you know Karl Urban was coming to town?"

There's a pause. "He might have called."

"When?"

"Three days ago?" Hunh.

He answers the rest of her question, then gets off the phone and goes back into the main suite. It's lighter now, and blinking the crust away from his eyes-- and the blear off of his contacts-- he sees that one of the things he tripped over was Karl's bag, and now his shit's dumped all over the floor.

Karl's still sprawled on the bed, snoring lightly-- he's shit at the time change when he travels and weird about how he sleeps, so it's not too weird that he didn't wake up when Chris' phone went off, not really. The room looks like a bomb hit it, their clothes everywhere and Chris' and Annie's shit everywhere, too. He's been a mess, even if he has been working too much rather than drinking. Chris scoops up some of the stuff from Karl's bag-- iPhone, book, magazines, and starts to put it all back-- until he looks, really looks at the stuff in his hands, and sees what it is.

He's not going to vomit, he tells himself as he pages through the Flaubert, reads the bits that Karl's tagged, all the ones that prove-- well, Karl's not a lit major and neither is he a fool, but he's read it from his own perspective and clearly-- clearly-- what he thinks happened versus what actually did, that and the magazines in his bag.

Maybe Chris had overreacted to the Variety photos of Nat and Karl and should have waited for some explanation. Karl had sure as fuck better have one right now.

"Karl," he says, shaking his shoulder. "Karl."

"Mmmph." Indeterminate grumbles are all he gets for a minute or two-- but his third, sharper "Karl," gets Karl's attention, those hazel eyes finally coming open.

"Mm--what? What's it?" Karl asks, sitting up-- looking concerned.

"Want to explain why all the passages about Emma Bovary being a romantic dumb twat and not being able to see the forest for the damned trees are marked up and you've got a bag full of tabloids about Annie and me?"

Karl flushes and then turns pale, goes instantly sweaty and oh-- that's interesting, but oh-- fuck. Yeah. Chris didn't really think Karl really wanted him back, right?

"Chris, I..."

Maybe Chris doesn't want an explanation at all. Or maybe there just isn't one. Maybe the pictures are the thousands of words, that and the book, because of course now Karl finally reads the damned thing, but that's the problem with books, people form their own opinions and find their own relevance-- you can't control what people think, how they respond to shit. How was Karl supposed to know that what Chris liked were the meta aspects, the sheer fucking waste of it all and the gorgeous descriptions?

"I'm not going to pine like Emma did, Karl. Don't worry yourself on that aspect. I like my career. I've got shit to do with my life." It's not right, he knows it-- he shouldn't attack, but he's so-- it's not even anger at this point, it's just fucking shock.

"Chris," Karl says, and now he's out of bed, now he's got Chris by the arms. "Yeah. Listen. Like I tried to say last night, and I'm no good at this, so I'm going to bumble-- I've had my head up my arse and been feeling sorry for myself for a long time, since before we got together, and yeah-- it took those stupid pictures of you and your friend to light a fire under me to get to me see that I just ... I miss you, alright?"

Chris shakes his head. "You were jealous. You are jealous. Of Annie and me. Even though you know we're really just friends and could pretty much stop fucking whenever we wanted."

Karl nods, looking miserable, but he admits it aloud. "Yeah."

He's being honest-- totally honest-- and fuck-- fuck-- fuck-- if it'd happened before his birthday, maybe-- fine. But now?

"You said last night it takes two to tango, Karl. And you'd had your head up your ass but I'd never asked you for anything or told you when I was upset. But that's not really true." Chris takes a step back, rubs his hand over his face because fuck. This just-- motherfucker.

"I made room for you, Karl. Invited you to meet all my friends, my family and shit, but like you said to Annie last night, that wasn't something you were ready to do. Over almost two years." His voice is more shaky-- and loud-- than he thought it would be. "So I didn't tell you in so many words that 'hey, Karl, it's tearing me into nine million fucking pieces every time you say you love your wife on the phone when I'm in earshot,' or I didn't ask you to please fucking get a divorce because hey, you know what, I wasn't as cool and as cosmopolitan as I thought and you know what, neither were you?"

He shrugs-- looks Karl in the eye. "I read your kids stories at bedtime because they were awesome and wanted me to, even though it meant talking to Nat who you always knew I didn't like talking to even if objectively she's a perfectly nice person, the you and me thing aside-- I spent most of our time at your house because you bitched about the parking on my street, even though it was a pain for me to get to the Geffen and my other rehearsals and traffic and shit-- if that wasn't clear enough for you around all the other shit, and yes, Karl, I loved you, and yes, I still do-- because if you need me to fucking say it aloud and you need some fucking papshot of me with a friend to realize it yourself, this isn't going to work."

Karl's yelling back at him-- it's the stupidest fight in the world, hell, the only real fight they've ever had because they never fought before, not really, just stupid shit like whose turn it was to pick up more bacon, then fucked and repressed everything else-- and says "You can't tell me this isn't going to work if you don't give it a shot," before he's kissing Chris like a savage--

"No," Chris manages, shoving Karl back, because sex is the last thing they need. Again.

"We just need to talk to each other," Karl shouts, and Chris laughs.

"Because kissing really is talking," he yells right back, and if there are tears streaking his cheeks, well. Fuck. Whatever.

"Chris," Karl tries, and Chris dodges, until they've got the couch between them and now it's gone from drama to farce.

"Karl-- give me one reason why you think that this time it would work." The demand is half-sniffled, half-growled.

Karl looks helpless before he says-- "Because I love you, goddamnit," and Chris can't help it, he laughs-- like love ever solved anything. Karl's had as much time as Chris has to think. There are snotty tears on his face as Karl starts yelling at him about how he does, godfuckingdamnit, and Chris just needs to listen-- when the door creaks open and Annie's voice breaks in-- her "Chris?" trailing off into an "Oh.." because he and Karl are, as Karl would say, starkers.

Karl's face is not quite purple with anger-- and fuck knows what Chris looks like as he goes over to Anne at the door. "Hey," he offers, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. She's seen him in worse shape and vice versa.

"I, um-- heard yelling and wondered if you were okay," she said, keeping her eyes on Chris and clearly trying not to stare at ... well. Objectively. Yeah. The evidence clearly pointed to Kirk and McCoy fucking and then having a big argument in a hotel room.

"I'm okay, but Karl was just leaving."

"I am not, you know that perfectly well. I'm sorry, Miss Hathaway, but you've interrupted a rather private moment," Karl says from behind him and Anne's eyes, well--

Anne looks sympathetic at the entire situation-- not pitying, thank all fuck-- but she looks at Chris and then the rest of the room before looking Karl dead in the eye. "If Chris said you're leaving, I think that means you're leaving."

Karl doesn't argue-- and Chris doesn't wait to watch to see how long it takes him, he just follows Annie into her room when she tips her head at the open door.

When he hears the faint sound of his own suite door closing, he lets out the breath he'd been holding and sinks down on the edge of Anne's bed.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit."

"That's one way to put it," Anne says, then crawls up on the bed and rests against the headboard, petting the spot between her legs in clear invitation.

"Now-- spill."

He's never told everyone the whole story-- never told anyone any part of the story besides Zach, though most of the Trek cast knows they're together, of course. The press junket made it hard to hide that kind of thing. But right now...

"I actually met him the first day Kirk meets McCoy in the movie. Really stupid, you know?"

"Honey, don't meta-narrate, just tell me." Her hands ruffle his hair as she pets him, and he lets it soothe him, makes that conscious decision. He's got to get on with his fucking life. Maybe telling the story aloud as an actual fact instead of allegorizing it in his notebooks will make it process.

 

concluded in part 8


	8. Chapter 8

part 8

 

October 30, 2010

It's seven o'clock in the morning when his phone rings, and he's fast asleep. It doesn't stop him from answering. Or not recognizing the voice.

"You're a bastard. Still. I've decided I like you, and so I'm going to help you woo the princess."

"Who... Anne? Why the fuck does everyone call him Princess? What?"

There's a burbling laugh on the other end of the line. "You left me five messages, Karl, you'd think to expect to hear from me whenever."

He whacks his head on-- what? something-- sitting up. A book? The side-table? Whatever.

"Look-- just..."

"I know." She sounds like she actually does.

"I just want him back." And it's not just the mini-fridge hangover that makes him feel so fucking miserable as he says it.

"I've got to be on set in three hours. Chris has just left. Meet me-- no-- I'll come down to your room for breakfast, order me cafe au lait and some oatmeal for breakfast, we'll talk."

"How did you..."

She cuts him off again before he can finish his sentence. "I'll be down in fifteen minutes. Take a shower, wake up, cafe au lait and oatmeal. If I have to watch the princess put on his brave face much longer I'm going to scream."

"Is he okay?"

There's a pause. "No. But the fact that you asked means maybe he will be."

She hangs up before Karl can ask what that means.

 

+++

November 3, 2010

Karl sighs and slumps into the booth as he glares at his steak.

"What did those steak frites ever do to you, Karl?"

He transfers his glare over to Annie. She doesn't back down. He really, really wishes he didn't like Annie so much.

She orders something from the waiter who comes bustling over, then puts her chin on her hand.

"Did he even open the package today?"

She nods, but she doesn't look happy. He'd gotten out the big guns today, sent Persuasion and a few movies he knew were Chris' favorites, along with a note about how he was trying, that he wanted Chris to know he would listen and could listen to whatever Chris wanted to tell him, for better or worse, and yes, he really meant those words, damnit, the damnit part underlined. He hadn't asked for Anne's help with the note, though he usually told her what was going into the package, but he was running out of options, goddamnit. He'd started off just with notes and the occasional joint thing of theirs from L.A., or some of the stuff of Chris' he'd gotten soppy about-- he'd tried to explain that yeah, he looked around his place and missed the hell out of Chris because everywhere in the house there was a memory-- but Chris had just sent him a text that said-- Maybe you need to move and donate to Goodwill.

"He tossed the note," Annie says, then takes the salad and the glass of wine brought by the waiter. "I'm sorry."

"I just..." He stabs at his steak with his knife, but there's no fucking point in eating some more. He's not hungry, hasn't been since before she texted to say she was delayed. "I don't know. Maybe he really has made up his mind."

Anne shakes her head. "He tosses the note, then keeps the books and movies. He probably went back for the note, even if he tossed it again."

"What's he saying about it?"

Anne shrugs. "He says he doesn't want to talk about it, really doesn't," then takes a bite of her salad. "I don't want to push him too much, but ..." She sighs, then puts her hand on her chin again before reaching across the table to pat Karl's hand. "I don't know. Maybe you need to stop writing him long heartfelt notes and give him something that talks to him more directly or something."

Karl picks at his fries for a while and makes random conversation about the movie and the co-star whatsisname Gerald? German? Butler-- not Chris-- that Anne's itching after and tries not to wonder (or ask) if Chris is still sleeping with Anne, since if they are it's just friendly, even less than he and Nat were when he and Chris started. Which of course is the whole fucking problem.

He picks up the cheque for dinner and gives Anne a peck on the cheek as he sees her into the cab, tells her he's going to walk around some before going back to the hotel. Not that they'd walk all the way back together-- stupid of him to stay at the same place, much less make friends with-- all the possessives give him a headache, Chris isn't his boyfriend, Anne's not really Chris' girlfriend, the tabloids don't care any which way-- but still. He'd see her there in the cab, then have it pull round the back to drop him off.

There's a children's toy shop open-- late, a surprise, since most of Paris is closed after supper, but this neighborhood seems to keep later hours-- and they've got books in a few different languages, and what the hell, he's always on the lookout for things for the boys. It'll be something to do with his evening at least.

A book with a gorilla on the cover catches his eye-- snorting, he pulls it out of the plastic display and looks at it, caught by the faces-- the ape's got a little cat on its head, and they've got sweet little dopey expressions as they look at each other.

He doesn't know why, but he likes the way that it looks.

 

+++

 

November 4, 2010

Chris can hear tapping. Damn, he hates it when they do this in movies (okay, maybe Hitchcock is allowed, he gets a free pass for being super cool) but this whole, ‘I can hear a noise and is it in my dream or for reals’ - he just hates that. And now it’s happening, to him.

He stares at the ceiling, or what would be the ceiling if he could see past the tip of his nose, listens carefully – okay, so it’s Paris, it’s never quiet, but it ‘feels’ like the middle of the night, people are drinking coffee, smoking in the dark.

There it is again- tap, tap, tap. Chris angles his head towards the sound. He’d thought (in his dream) that it was a clock ticking, but no, it’s someone knocking on his door. He reaches for his glasses and moves to the dividing door like he’s walking through, and here’s a nice dream cliché, he thinks, thorough molasses.

“What’s up?” He looks at Anne, resists saying she should have hinted earlier if she fancied a quickie, not now that he’s actually asleep, but she looks too concerned for that and “—what time is it?”

“It’s early, listen Chris, there was a delivery for you—“ she steps away from the door, nods towards the bed to a small pile of packages, wrapped in brown paper.

Chris feel a flash of anger heat his neck. He doesn’t need to ask – it’s Karl. Only Karl… and why’s he bringing Anne into this?

Anne can obviously sense how pissed he is and reaches out an appeasing arm, “Just give him this chance, please?”

“Why does it matter to you?” He manages not to shrug her off, but he doesn’t like how whiny his voice sounds-- seems that’s what ‘helpless’ does to your vocal cords. He shifts from one foot to the other, thinking about Karl, thinking how much he wants him, how big of a mistake the other night was because, there, yet again, because each time this happened, he’d have to quit and it would be back to the beginning again and all that pain, all that doing without, was just a waste of fucking effort.

“I like dogs, okay, and he looked like a big, sad old dog when he brought these over—“ Anne tugs at the skin under one eye to make a sad face, droops her bottom lip, pants, then as an afterthought makes a long, dog ear out of her hair.

Chris grins and pats the top of her head, “I should call the pound, get rid of you both—“

Anne sighs and adjusts her sleep shorts absently as she mimes peeing against the door frame then pushes Chris in the chest, “Just look at this stuff, okay?” She pads over to her bed and picks up Karl’s gifts and plonks them in his arms before she presses a kiss to his temple. “I need to sleep, “ she says, “I don’t ‘do’ rugged as well as you do…” She rubs her chin as if to scratch stubble.

“He’s making me wish I can’t read—“

“And that’s precisely why you need to bring this to an end, one way or the other, Chris, before I—" And the door clicks, half an inch from the tip of his nose, cutting her threat off before he can learn what she'll do.

He walks to the bed and lays the three packages out. Each bears an old-fashioned, card label tied on with string. Chris imagines Karl’s large fingers fiddling with the knots and grins, as much as he doesn't want to– the silly dork.

Chris settles at the foot of the bed, one leg under him, the other on the floor as he turns each label over. There’s a number on one side, and a message on the reverse in Karl’s quasi- legible hand. He notes that the pen ran out on one, and Karl resorted to finishing the note in pencil. Chris finds this hopelessly adorable before he tsks, remembers he’s supposed to be… actually, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing. He's fucking exhausted-- has been, ever since he saw Karl. Then he realizes he’s thinking too much– someone gives you a gift, you open it, it's really that simple. Maybe he's a little more like Emma than he wants to admit.

He arranges the packages on the bed in numerical order and looks at label # 1.

Open me!!!

Three exclamation points, seriously, Karl…

It’s an iPod and there’s another message, a Post-it with the words - listen to me.

He switches the iPod on; there’s one track name - 'Little Beauty'. This is new. Karl’s not sent him music before, after all, they have such different taste it would be a disaster. Still, he hasn’t heard of this track before. He works the ear pieces in and presses play, starts when Karl’s voice, not music fills him.

Shit.

Hey, Chris, it’s me, your friendly neighborhood stalker! Chris can’t help smiling while also wondering at himself, how he wants to crawl into bed and fall asleep with this voice talking into his ear like this. And I know what you’re thinking, this is one of those sex-tapes but, sorry to disappoint you, mate, it’s no such thing. I’m going to read you a story, but first, you need to open package number two. You’d better hit pause while you do that. Karl dips his voice, conspiratorially, I couldn’t work out how long to wait for and knowing my luck the phone would ring or something and…okay, hit pause, Chris—“

Chris unwraps the second package carefully, turning what turns out to be kid’s book in his hands. Little Beauty, by Anthony Browne, is the size of an LP album sleeve. He runs his finger along the cover illustration, a super-real, high-def painting of a head and shoulders shot of a gorilla with a tiny, stripy kitten sitting on its head. He can make out each hair on the gorilla’s face as it’s frozen in the moment when it turns its eyes up towards its little pal, sitting on his great head.

There’s a post-it stuck in the white space.

No cheating and jumping ahead!

Chris runs his fingers along the adhesive side of the post-it, imagines Karl’s intent expression while he did this, moves the post-it, covers the kitten and turns to the ‘this book belongs to’ page. He can’t help smiling when he sees Karl’s handiwork. Karl’s written, and crossed out Chris’ name on the first line -

Christopher W. Pine. Under that he’s written - Captain James T Kirk, also crossed out.

Then, on the third blank line, Karl’s written - ‘us’.

This doesn’t make sense at first, until Chris reads it as - ‘This book belongs to us’ and he leans his face in his hands for a moment, thinks about that, how much he’d wanted it. How it’s too fucking late. He lights a cigarette, and follows the instruction from post-it #2:

I knew you’d peek – now press play!

Good, you’re back! Karl says in his ear and yeah, it makes Chris heart leap a little bit and his cock pay attention. Okay, Chris, now turn the page -- and no peeking ahead, promise? There’s a long pause and Chris stares at the book cover while he waits for Karl to speak again, his gaze following the gray circles round the gorilla’s eyes, the brush strokes which make up his eyebrows – I wanted to say something before I launched into this… that er…well, I’ve run out of words, I suppose. Chris, shit, I’m getting all maudlin now, and I don’t know how to rewind this thing, so just ignore that last bit, okay? He’s nervous, stumbling and Chris feels a little bit cruel for putting Karl through this– there’s another long pause.

So, sitting comfy? Good—

Chris stubs out his cigarette and scoots up the bed, sits with his legs stretched out, the book balanced on his thighs. Karl begins to read.

Once upon a time there was a very special gorilla who had been taught to use sign language— Chris examines the illustration while Karl tells him how the gorilla used his hands to sign – the gorilla sits on a chintz covered armchair, a burger in a bun balanced on one arm of the chair, a mug of tea on the other. The gorilla holds a remote control in its hand. The picture has an incredible sense of solidity, like the gorilla’s stuck in place, surrounded and hemmed in by shadows.

When Karl speaks, the tone of his voice makes Chris’ shoulders sag.

But he was sad, Karl says in his ear. Chris turns the page. It comes over as ‘sed’ with the accent and Chris wonders if he’d have picked up the meaning without the text in front of him. Of course, he tells himself, he always gets words – it’s Karl who doesn’t. The gorilla rests its chin on its hand and Chris pauses the recording so he can spend a moment examining the illustration, look at the downturned, black lips, the sad, sad brown eyes. He touches the shiny paper, runs his finger across the gorilla’s brow, presses play and turns the page.

One day he signed to his keepers “I…want…a friend.”

Chris looks at the gorilla’s hand and copies the gestures, reads on with a lump in his throat. In the story, the keepers have an idea and give him a friend, a tabby kitten with big green eyes and white paws. Karl reads: “Don’t eat her,” said one of the keepers. But the gorilla loved Beauty.” Beauty sits in the gorilla’s palm, she’s the size of an egg, Chris thinks, just as fragile and he loves the way her eyes are turned up to look at the gorilla. He’s not sure if she’s scared or not. He really wants to know.

Over the next few pages, the gorilla takes care of Beauty. Then they’re asleep on the armchair, Beauty tucked in under the gorilla’s arm while they snooze. Chris presses pause and spends a long time looking at this picture, thinking about how peaceful they look, and what an odd pair they are. At some point he’s stopped trying to make sense of it. Chris notices this when he turns the page and bursts out laughing. They did everything together and Karl’s laughing too, how could they not at the double-page pic of gorilla on the john, and the kitten sitting in a litter tray – they both look pretty blissful.

Like that, Chris? Karl says -- it’s like he’s in the room, sharing the book with Chris. Turn the page.

Now the gorilla’s swinging through the lounge like Tarzan, and the light flex is the creeper, Beauty holding tight. Another post-it covers a picture on the wall -- by Breughel, it says. Chris makes a mental note to Google it later.

Karl reads on - They were happy for a long time…until… In the picture, Beauty and the gorilla watch King Kong together, and the gorilla gets angry and smashes the TV set. The keepers rushed in. “Who broke the television?” said one. “We’ll have to take Beauty away now, “ said another. The gorilla’s mouth is a round ‘o’ shape, its eyes are white, he wraps his arms around his legs while he waits out his fate. Chris almost doesn’t dare turn the page, and Karl keeps the tension up with a long pause until he reads on - The gorilla looks at Beauty. Beauty looked at the gorilla. Then she started to sign…

Chris holds his breath while he turns the page. He can hear Karl clear his throat, imagines Karl holding this same copy of the book in his hands - “It…was…ME! I broke the television!” The kitten tells the keepers, looking mighty pleased at getting the gorilla off the hook.

Chris closes his eyes, while Karl reads the last few lines. And do you know what happened? Beauty and the gorilla lived happily ever after.

Chris stares at the last page, at an illustration of two roses, one white, one pink and he can see Beauty and the gorilla’s faces within the petals.

Before you ask, Karl says, making him jump, I’ve got no bloody idea in hell what that means – I don’t have the right words, Chris and God knows I’ve tried to find them, tried to show you.

I guess, when I looked at this book, it occurred to me that sometimes pictures have the answers, maybe? Chris flicks back through the book while he listens, lights another cigarette.

Chris, all I know is I want you, want to be mates, fuck, just want to be with you and do everything with you. I know I should back off now, this was my last ditch attempt at wowing you with my famed command of the English language and with…you know, with books. I know you aren’t six, Chris, but you know, there’s as much in these few words as there is in one of those bloody great door-stops you’re so fond of. Maybe, there just aren’t the right words and I’ll just have to keep trying to show you... shit, I dunno. I’m sorry, I sound like a nut job. You’d better open your last pressie. 'Night, Chris.

With shaking hands, and a lump in his throat, Chris picks up the package -- it’s maybe a foot high, light and squashy and he’s not surprised when he looks that the label says: Keep me? Somehow the question mark almost has Chris in fucking tears, and he knows what this is going to be before he even opens it…

It’s a stuffed gorilla with a sad face, soft, hairy arms and a big belly. Chris isn’t sure what to do with it. He rests it on his knees, then lies it on its back. He opens its arms out wide, touches its nostrils. “Karl,” he says, his voice raspy—tired-- broken.

Chris notices the gorilla’s wearing something around its neck. He leans in close, pulls the chain up so he can see there’s a hand making a very particular gesture; the two inner fingers, the ring and middle fingers, are folded forward, the tips touching the palm.

There’s one more post-it, a small one, folded in half, stuck to the underside of the gorilla’s foot. Chris looks at it as he picks up the phone and reads it again –

In case you aren’t telepathic, which clearly you aren’t, it’s American sign language for ‘I love you’.

“Is there a gentleman sitting in the lobby?” Chris asks the guy on the front desk, his voice croaking.

“Yes, sir, he’s been here some time. Do you know him?”

“Messy, dark hair, looks like a dog hit by a truck?”

“Well…he does have dark hair, sir. Shall I send him up?”

“Tell him to take the stairs, I’ll meet him halfway—“

Because sometimes you have to make the actions speak, too.

 

+++

 

11: 25 p.m., August 26, 2010

He's discussing whether to hire Nat her own car or whether they can make do with splitting Karl's while Karl works out a schedule with Chris in terms of sharing his, too-- that and trying to hear her answer over the beat of the bass in the club, when there's a hard grip on his elbow.

"Far be it from me to interrupt you while you talk to your wife, Mr. Urban," Zach says, loudly and with a pissed and yet-- satisfied?-- gleam in his eye, sober as day, "but I think your boyfriend has left."

Smarmy tone and use of that obnoxious word to the side when he and Chris aren't-- well-- sure as fuck, Karl looks around and Chris is nowhere to be seen. "Nat, hold on a sec--" he says, then puts the phone down.

"He's not in the john?"

Zach shakes his head. Crosses his arms for good measure. "No. I checked."

Karl excuses himself, says "Babe, sorry, I've got to go, call you tomorrow, love to the boys," and hangs up, heads out through the crowd to the entrance. He's hauled up short at the elbow again and he turns around with a "What?" that's more growl than anything else.

Zach looks like the fucking cat in the cream and god, it's not the time but Karl wants to punch him. "You'd better find the right words, Karl, that's all. The birthday boy, ditching his own party? I wouldn't say that's a good thing."

Karl shakes him off like a bad dream, because Zach likes to cause trouble. "Thanks for letting me know," he grits out, then continues his way out to the entrance. He grabs his coat, shoves too much of a tip at the coatgirl, doesn't even say 'bye to their friends, because Zach is a prick but he's right in this much. Chris isn't usually the rude kind to leave without saying goodbye-- and since he's the one who convened this whole little shindig, slipping out when it's just begun to get started-- hell, there are people here Karl's not ever met-- well, that's not very good.

He tries not to stomp down the long concrete hallway, tries not to be pissed off by the weird industrial light that looks like one too many horror movies he's worked on, then spots Chris at the door just as he steps out into the street and opens the door to a cab.

Karl breaks into a run, grabs onto Chris' arm. He'll figure out something to say. Something. The right words-- wasn't that what Zach had said?

 

END

(If you want more, there's an additional, 'deleted scene' by sangueuk - Cabin Fever http://archiveofourown.org/works/210992 ) 


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